


5 Times John Got the Girl (and lost her) and 1 Time John Got the Guy (and kept him)

by LiviKate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry Exs, Awkward Sherlock, BAMF John, Badass John, Embarrassed John, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Sherlock, John can be a ladies man, John's Scar, Kissing, M/M, Oblivious Sherlock, Really Good Sex, Scars, Sexual Content, Sexy John, Sherlock lets himself be human, Stud John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 01:51:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiviKate/pseuds/LiviKate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has always had good luck with the ladies. He's charming, friendly and funny, not to mention great in bed. However, his usual skill with the opposite sex is constantly being thwarted by Sherlock and his outbursts. How will John ever get a leg over when Sherlock is always cockblocking him?</p><p> </p><p>This is just something I've kinda thought up and am running with. Chapters will vary greatly in length I think, and I'll add more tags as I go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pub Snogging

1.

                She smelled like jasmine and blueberries and tasted like the beer she let John buy her. She was soft and smooth, her hands dragging lightly down his arms and through the short hair at the back of his head. The pub was noisy but not too crowded, but none of that mattered much to John anymore. Right now the only concern he had was how far this brilliant little beauty was going to let him go. He wasn’t known for being too pushy, but he also wasn’t known for being turned down too often. Especially after the girl had gotten a taste.

John hadn’t come out to pull anyone, although to be honest, anytime John went out there was a solid chance he wouldn’t be headed home too early. Or too lonely. Tonight had started out as a guy’s night; watching a match in a pub with the lads. Greg and John had agreed to go for a pint after a case and had run into a few of John’s mates from his rugby club. John made introductions and, being naturally gregarious and in need of a true, rough, guy’s night, Greg took to the group easily and they were soon all laughing and carrying on like much younger men again.

It was about one hour and two beers in that one of his mates, Rory, pointed out a pretty little bird across the bar.

“Oye, John, look a’ that,” He said, prodding John in the ribs and gesturing towards the girl. “She looks like your type o’ lass.”

“What are you on about?” shouted another mate, crowded around the table. “Every girl is John’s type of girl!” John laughed good-naturedly, gazing appreciatively at the woman they’d pointed out. She was beautiful. Petite but leggy, with subtle curves and skin that looked like spilt cream. She sat alone in a booth, pushing her phone absently across the table.

 _‘Bored, but not disappointed, so she’s not being stood-up,’_ John thought, startling himself for a moment at how Sherlockian the observation was. He smiled a little, proud of himself, as he studied her again, looking for more clues. _‘Calluses on middle and index finger’s, consistent with lots of writing. Maybe a journalist, but her phone was high-tech, so she likely would prefer a laptop. Secretary then? Likely, given her smart but sexy jeans, blazer and messy updo. Hoping for a girls night out, but the girls got busy? She looked bored, not looking for anyone, but seemingly unwilling to leave quite yet. Her first drink was empty. Perfect.’_

“I’ll be right back, boys,” John said with a smile, slapping very surprised looking Greg on the back as he walked past him.

“No, you won’t!” one of the fellas called after him, met with raucous laughter. John flashed a wicked grin over his shoulder before approaching the solitary beauty.

“Hello,” John greeted softly, from a couple feet away, giving the woman time to acknowledge him before he stepped too close. “Mind if I get you another drink?” His polite inquiry seemed to surprise her, and her eyes widened slightly behind her wire rimmed glasses that complimented her dark brown hair and bright blue eyes.

“Umm,” she hesitated. But John had a trustworthy face, was keeping a polite distance and was wearing a freaking cardigan. Hardly the picture of a scary rapist. “Sure, I’d love that,” she said with a grin, sticking out her hand. “My name’s Samantha.”

“John,” he said, kissing the back of her hand and nailing her with a dazzling smile. She fell head-first into those deep blue eyes, honest face and devilish grin. She didn’t stand a chance.

Thirty minutes later, Samantha was sitting on the edge of her booth, back to the wall, and John standing in the splay of her thighs. Her hands slid lazily over his shoulders and neck, delighting in the slow and deep snog. John stood, head perfectly level with hers, and held himself close, one hand braced against the back of the booth, the other on the table. He was careful when he touched her and attentive in his kissing, as was the way of John Watson. This was his play. And it had worked many, many times. He had a technique to pulling girls, something his friends called a “signature Watson move.” And sweet Sammy was not going to be able to resist.

“Think he’ll do the thing?” one of John’s rugby friends asked, watching with interest from across the pub.

“Depends on if he’s just in for the snog and a number, or if he’s looking to take her home,” another one replied, causing the eyebrows of a particular Detective Inspector to shoot skyward.

If John had been listening, he’d have heard Lestrade asking one of the rugby boys what all they were on about. If John hadn’t been so otherwise engaged, he would’ve heard his mate explain to Lestrade that he was about to witness the fool-proof, Watson-approved move that always brought the girl home for the night. But John didn’t hear any of that, because he was busy executing _the Move_.

John took a tiny step forward, taking his weight off his arms, the outsides of his thighs pushing hers farther open. His hands now free, he trailed his fingertips lightly, like feathers and fairy dust lightly, down the lengths of her thighs, from hipbone to kneecap. He knew under her tight, dark jeans, her skin was tingling and prickling, anxious for more contact. Contact he was sure to give her.

As his fingertips blithely traced the planes of her patella and John’s tongue slowly danced in Samantha’s mouth, he could vaguely hear the rising cheers and jeers from his abandoned friends four tables away.

“Oh, guys, he’s going for it!”

“Looklooklook, he’s doing the thing!”

“Take notes, boys, this is how it’s done.”

All at once, a change overtook John.  He went from soft and gentle to rough and strong in half a second. What had just been the light brushing of fingers was now the bruising force of hard, heavy hands, pressing down as John drug them back up her legs, grabbing her harshly by the hips and slamming her against him. His mouth followed suit; kisses were now the demanding, biting and pulling of lips. Samantha tensed up and she moaned into John’s mouth as her hips crashed jarringly into his, her hands turned to claws and her legs wrapped tightly around his waist.

The men four tables down were cheering and catcalling as John took her mouth as his own, plundering and invading as he pleased. She clung to him, keening and scratching, along for the ride, wherever he led her. She was a sure thing. John had his new plan for the night, and dear God, it was looking like a good one.

That is, until, a tall and lanky Belstaff came sweeping through the door, the body inside quickly scanning the room.

“John,” Sherlock called from the doorway. He frowned when John didn’t immediately stop snogging the life out of the little brunette beauty currently wrapped around him. “John!” he barked again, beginning to make his way across the pub.

“Oye, now, wait a second, Sherlock,” Lestrade called, intercepting the tall, impatient man-child as he began to settle into a pout at being so rudely ignored. “John’s a little busy right now, don’t ya think?” Sherlock scoffed dismissively.

“Really, Lestrade? Oh, yes, of course, because snogging some anonymous woman in a bar is more important that working a case,” Sherlock sneered, making to step around Greg to go fetch his soldier.

“Hey now, you look over there,” said a man from the group Sherlock didn’t recognize. “That look like 'just snogging' to you?”

Sherlock stared blankly back at him, missing whatever point he was implying. The man laughed.

“That’s not snogging, that’s foreplay, right there!” he guffawed loudly. “The only way he doesn’t take that girl home tonight is if he takes her in the alley right outside!” The men roared with laughter, swinging beers up and cheering their friend’s good fortune. Greg laughed too, distracted momentarily by his new friends. Sherlock took the opportunity and slipped by him, possessing way too much grace for a human as tall and lanky as he.

“John,” Sherlock said again, walking up to the entwined couple. “Come on, John, I’ve got a lead.” Sherlock was once again ignored. Sherlock sighed. _‘So this was what it came down to, hmm?’_

“What the—Sherlock!” John cried angrily as he was ripped from the lips of his latest would-be-conquest. Sherlock released his hold on the back of John’s cardigan, frowning at John for making it come to this. It only upset John, being manhandled, so he shouldn’t’ve made Sherlock do it. _‘Obvious.’_

“John, I have a lead, we need to go,” Sherlock said quickly, already turning back towards the door.

“Sherlock, I’m a little busy,” John said snappily, hands on hips, standing his ground. Samantha was teetering breathlessly on the edge of her seat, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, looking thoroughly kissed and thoroughly confused.

“This is important, John,” Sherlock insisted, turning back to his flatmate, impatient exasperation on his pale, sharp face.

“Sherlock, we’re not even on a case,” Lestrade called from afar, wanting to help John without getting too close to a volatile Sherlock. He was no coward, but he knew how to pick his battles with Sherlock Holmes.

“We are. You are not,” Sherlock said pointedly. _‘Oh, God,’_ Greg thought. ‘ _One of_ those _cases.’_

“John?” Samantha asked, uncertainly, finally getting her breath back. John gave her a quick, tight lipped smile before turning back to his mad detective.

“Sherlock, you can’t go without me?” John asked, running a hand through his ruffled blonde hair.

“I _can_ go without you,” Sherlock began frustratedly. “But it would be safer with you there.” He punctuated this request-that-he-would-never-call-a-request by casually tapping the pocket of his coat. Anyone else would’ve missed that, or just assumed it was nothing. But John knew better. John knew that was Sherlock subtly drawing his attention to the faint outline of his Sig Sauer P226, stealthily stashed in the inside pocket of his coat.

John sighed. If Sherlock felt as though they needed the gun, he couldn’t let the daft oaf go on his own. It could be dangerous. And here John was.

And with a sad sigh and a forlorn look at the flushed beauty at his side, John nodded to Sherlock. Sherlock nodded once and turned towards the door.

“Sorry, love,” John said sincerely to Samantha. “I’ve got to go.”

“You’re leaving?” She asked, eyes wide with shock.

“He needs my help,” John said shrugging. “He’ll get himself killed if he goes alone.”

“You said you were a doctor,” Samantha said accusingly, angry at being left behind so easily.

“I am. But I also do this,” John said, shrugging into his jacket and dropping more than enough money onto the table.

“Do what?” Samantha asked, getting confused and angry.

“Keep that idiot safe,” John said grinning. She wasn’t nearly as pretty when she frowned like that. And he could tell she was getting even angrier. “Maybe some other time?” he asked, hoping to salvage something from the great snog he just had.

“Maybe not,” she snapped, grabbing her coat and pushing her way to the door. John sighed, shrugged a goodbye at the rugby boys booing his poor luck. Lestrade walked with him to the door, stopping just inside.

“Important case?” he asked carefully.

“Dunno, I guess,” John said uncommitted, knowing he could trust Lestrade, but not wanting him to get in trouble. Sherlock sometimes had to bend some laws to solve cases like these, cases that came from Mycroft.

“He had your gun, didn’t he?” Lestrade asked mildly. John’s head snapped up, alarmed that the Detective Inspector knew about the service weapon he wasn’t supposed to have anymore. “It’s alright, John,” Greg assured him with a pat on the back, pushing him to the door and to Sherlock (impatiently) waiting on the other side. “Someone’s gotta keep that git safe.” John smiled at his friend, nodding his thanks before joining Sherlock outside, and following him happily into whatever danger Sherlock had so clearly promised.


	2. Isn't that What Men are Proud of?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock voices some interesting facts about John's personal life in front of his friends at the Yard.
> 
> This work is not beta-ed or britpicked. If you see something, let me know, I'd appreciate the help! :)

“Seriously? Seriously, John?!” Mandy yelled as John tried to make hasty apologies. It was a New Year’s party the Yard was throwing, celebrating another year of successful collars and a slightly lower crime rate in London. Mandy, John’s current girlfriend of one month, knew no one there but John and his psychotic flatmate. A flatmate who was now trying to drag John out the door, shouting something about a case, a pigeon and a thumb drive.

“Mandy, honey, please, I know, but it’s a case,” John said grimacing at the open fury on his girlfriend’s face. It had been a rather busy month for John, what with flu season and the clinic, figuring out a new girlfriend, and of course and most importantly, Sherlock dragging him all over London in search of killers, rapists, thieves and terrorists. Having the time of his life, of course. Not that Mandy would understand that. Which she obviously didn’t in this situation.

“I don’t care if it’s a case, John!” Mandy whinged. “You’ve ducked out on our last two dates, you’re not leaving me again tonight! It’s New Years,” she half pleaded, half scolded him, which did nothing at all to impede the strength with which Sherlock was attempting to tow the soldier away, all the while tapping wildly on his phone and shouting directions to Lestrade.

“I’m sorry, Mandy, I swear I’ll make it up to you,” He said, stubbornly resisting Sherlock’s grip. He was abandoning his girlfriend at a party where she knew no one, to go have fun tracking killers and maybe shooting guns with his best friend. The least he could do was say a decent goodbye.

“I swear to God!” Mandy shouted, drawing attention from nearby Yarders. “I don’t even know why I'm still with you!”

“Oh, for the love of…” Sherlock tossed his head back and groaned dramatically. “Don’t be dull; we all know exactly why you’re with him.” Sherlock’s exasperated sigh shook the whole room.

“Because I’m kind and charming?” John asked.

“No, don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock replied dryly, fiddling with his phone again.

“Then what is it, then?” John asked, looking to Sherlock instead of his girlfriend. As per usual. Without even looking up, Sherlock delivered a completely deadpan response:

“Only reason she’s still with you is because you have a big cock and know how to use it." Everyone in earshot was watching in silent, raptured attention, and a couple sniggers could be heard as nearly every other conversation died out.

“Whaaaa…” John stuttered, face going slack in shock

“No, that’s not… that’s no at all… there are plenty of…” Mandy stumbled through her defense, her face flushing so red it almost hurt her skin.

“Don’t bother lying, Cindy, we all know it’s true,” Sherlock said, giving only the most cursory of glances up and around the room.

“Mandy,” She replied through gritted teeth. Sherlock, of course, ignored her completely.

“The only reason you’d put up with all the times John leaves you for the Work is if the time you actually spent with him was worth it. And as you spent nearly all of that time having sex, and the walls in our flat are rather thin, I can assume it’s rather spectacular sex.”

“Sherlock!” John cried in protest, his face blushing an alarming shade of red in embarrassment and anger.

“What?” Sherlock asked, finally dropping his mobile and taking a good look at John’s face. “Bit not good?”

“No, Sherlock, not good at all!” John cried, gesturing to all the people standing around, watching the show. People he had to work with!

“What? I thought that was one of those things men are proud of?” Sherlock asked. “Big cocks? Sexual prowess? You should be pleased,” Sherlock quickly lost interest in John’s pedestrian emotions, choosing instead to solve a triple murder from his mobile. “You should be especially proud. Every morning, after you tortured me with hours of obnoxiously loud copulating, she’d stand in the kitchen on her phone, relaying the details to her sister in filthy detail.” Sherlock looked up to glare at the offending woman. “I’ve heard much too much of your “monster cock” and, oh and this is rich, your “tongue that’s cleverer than his mad flatmate thinks he is!”” Sherlock said in his high-pitched girls voice, wiggling his finger’s in the air.

“Sherlock! For the love of god, shut up!” John cried. John was breaking into a very rare sweat and his face and neck were uncomfortably warm. He didn’t like the leery looks he was suddenly getting from many of the Yarder’s. Some people looked surprised. Like, offendingly so. Absolutely gob smacked surprised. Others, mostly women, but also several men, were now gazing at John appraisingly, apparently with a new… appreciation of the compact man who hid under jumpers and cardigans.

“I… I… This…” Mandy sputtered, a sweat breaking out on her forehead from the imagined scrutiny of thousands of judgmental people.

“Do shut up,” Sherlock said. “I have a murderer to catch.” With that, he spun on the spot, parting the crowd by sheer force of will, his coat flying behind him like a super villain’s cape. Or super hero, one could argue. But for John? Tonight? Definitely a super villain.

“Look, Mandy, I’m really sorry about him,” John said, stepping forward and reaching for her arm. She jerked away.

“Yeah, I am too,” she spat, venomously. “I’m sorry I ever had anything to do with either of you!”

“Mandy,” John said, begging her back mostly just out of habit. But it wouldn’t be working this time, and he wasn’t heartbroken. Apparently, neither was Mandy. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, staring him down her freckled, button nose.

“No, John. Don’t. He’s right, the sex might have been incredible, but it is not worth putting up with this. Or competing with him.” With a sniff and a spin, Mandy was heading towards the doors, coat in hand, hurrying as far away from those two crazy men as fast as she could.


	3. Best of her Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we see the aftermath of when John is called away by Sherlock. As one might assume, it won't go over well!

3.

                  The cab ride to the latest crime scene proved to be rather entertaining for John. It had been a full week between cases and Sherlock had just started to become destructively bored. Needless to say, when Lestrade called with a case involving a young women with her feet removed with surgical precision, and replaced by a pair of unidentified feet, Sherlock was absolutely giddy with excitement.

                “Oh, John, imagine the implications!” Sherlock said with what he would never admit to being classified as a squeal of delight. “There’s a footless body somewhere in London. And imagine where we’ll find this second victims feet! She might not even be just the second victim! Given the ineptitude of the Yard, there could be a whole horde of footless corpses out there somewhere!”

                The cab driver looked back, frightened and wary of his fare. John gave him a reassuring smile, followed quickly with a good natured eye roll. As crazy as it was, as crazy as he was, John loved seeing Sherlock like this. Was it wrong? Yes. Disturbing? Absolutely. But did it make John grin to see his best friend so gleeful? Most definitely. Would he ever admit to that? Not today, he won’t.

                “Sherlock, please, this is a person you’re talking about,” John chastised, trying his best to convey a sense of disapproval. Judging by the gleam in Sherlock’s eye as he smiled cheekily at John, he had failed.

                When the pulled up to the apartment building, John could’ve sworn he recognized the place, absently wondering when he’d been here before. Walking into the crime scene, a basic but comfortable apartment, John had to remind Sherlock not to skip, a tip he took as he slowly approached the body, his eyes darting this way and that, picking up things John couldn’t even imagine, let alone observe on his own. But Sherlock was already working furiously, cataloguing evidence and making deductions about everything from what she had for dinner to where she had lost her virginity. It was amazing, really, watching Sherlock work. A less observant person wouldn’t even notice how much he was seeing. But John knew him well enough to know that every flick of his eyes, every curl of his lip and every twitch of his hand meant something new and important was being filed away in that massive brain of his.

                “Oh, Sherlock, glad you’re here,” Lestrade said, walking up to them.

                “No you’re not,” Sherlock retorted quickly, not taking his eyes off the body as he slowly circled her.

                “Right you are,” Lestrade said tiredly, dragging a hand down his face. John gave his shoulder a friendly pat.

                “When was the last time you slept?” he asked the Detective Inspector, gentle concern on his face as he studied the color and pallor of his friends face.

                “Don’t start in on me now, _doctor,_ ” Lestrade grinned ruefully. “Save that for Sherlock.” John laughed, eyes crinkling around the edges the way they did when we was genuinely happy.

                “John, please, this is a person you’re standing over,” Sherlock said, face serious but eyes shining, as he repeated the same sentiment John had expressed in the cab. John just chuckled again, probably looking like the most morbid, darkly humoured person in the world to any outsider. But he didn’t mind. A joking Sherlock was a cheerful Sherlock, John didn’t mind if he was standing over a dead girl, not if it made his friend happy.

                “Alright, alright,” John said, taking a deep breath to regain some composure. “What’ve you got so far?”

                “Five theories so far.” Sherlock did another circle around the body, crouching down to smell her hair. “Down to two. Who found the body?” he asked, his head snapping up to Lestrade.

                “Girl across the hall. Got some of the victim’s mail, came over to return it, found the door ajar and the body on the floor,” Lestrade reported, glancing down at the notebook in his hand.

                “Mail?” Sherlock asked, ears visibly perking up. “Bills? A magazine? A letter, what was it?”

                “A letter,” Lestrade answered, as quick as he could. “Just one.”

                “Does she still have the letter?” Sherlock asked, standing up suddenly and stepping around the body towards the door.

                “Probably. Is it important?” Lestrade asked, turning to watch Sherlock go, John taking a step after him.

                “Very possibly,” Sherlock answered, eyes scanning the apartment some more, settling momentarily on a pile of letters and bills stacked on the victim’s coffee table.

                “Well here, I’ll take you to her,” Lestrade said, leading the two men out the door and across the hall. The second John crossed the threshold and got a look at the very purple interior, smelling of orchids and apples, the memory of when we was in here last hit him like a slap to the face.

                “Oh no,” he whispered, earning a quick glance from Sherlock before he followed John’s gaze to the pretty blonde woman sitting on the couch, currently being awkwardly side-hugged by Sergeant Donovan, looking beautiful even through her tears. The girl looked up at near the same time, looking first to Sherlock and then to John, her eyes widening and her jaw dropping as John gave her an awkward, tight lipped smile.

                “John,” she breathed, shocked into stillness for a moment before hastily standing up, wiping her nose and running her fingers through her hair. _‘With the same hand,’_ Sherlock noticed with an internal cringe.

                “Hello, Jennica,” John said, his voice kind and comforting, but his shuffling feet revealing his discomfort.

                “Oh, you two know each other?” Donovan asked.

                “Not really.” John said at the same time Jennica said “Yeah, we do.” John had the decency to blush, whereas Jennica merely crossed her arms, staring at him cooly.

                “So you two have met before?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock snapped back to the present conversation, having collected any and all useful information from the flat, turning his attention back to the girl, fidgeting awkwardly in front of his blogger. John cleared his throat and looked away, avoiding the hostile looks Jennica was steadily sending his way. Sherlock sighed. _‘Plebeians,’_ he thought before jumping in.

                 “They’ve slept together,” Sherlock supplied quickly, looking intently at John and then giving Jennica the same scrutinizing treatment.

                “What? Really?” Lestrade asked, looking first to Sherlock before back to the slender, silver-eyed beauty leveling John with a killer gaze.

                “Judging by the looks of it, it was the best sex of her life and she resents never being called back” Sherlock gestured vaguely at the girl whose name he had already deleted. “For John, it was satisfactory, but nothing worth revisiting. Now, where is that letter?” he continued, ignoring the shocked, scandalized and embarrassed looks on the faces around him.

                “Best of my life? Hardly!” Jennica lied poorly, fuming with anger.

                “Oh please,” Sherlock began. “John has the anatomical knowledge and the steady hands of a medical man, he has the stamina and self-control of a soldier and the sexual drive and refractory period of a teenager. He’s the best sex of everyone’s life.”

                “Sherlock!” John exclaimed. Sherlock looked at him, seemingly surprised by, what he saw as, a totally uncalled for outburst, and he could practically feel the heat coming from Jennica’s hateful expression. They were quickly distracted however, by the usual suave and tact to be expected by Sergeant Sally Donovan.

“You?” Donovan barked with a laugh, pointing at John with disbelief. “And her?” she asked with growing incredulity. “But she’s gorgeous!” John only sighed in a long-suffering manner before attempting a light smile at Jennica. If looks could kill, John would be as dead as the Frankenstein-footed corpse across the hall. Sherlock bristled, not liking it when Donovan redirected her verbal abuse to John. _‘That’s a strange thought. To be filed for further review.’_

“All that talent, and you left in such a hurry,” Jennica shot accusingly at John.

“Yeah, sorry,” he replied, rubbing his neck awkwardly. “Got a text from him,” he said, fixing Sherlock with a quick glare. “Said he needed my help.”

 “Yeah, I’m sure,” she spat back at him. “It better have been pretty damn important!”

“I’m sure it was,” John assured her, remembering clearly what it had actually turned out being, and the row John had had with Sherlock over it.

“Oh, it was,” Sherlock insisted. “My laptop was on the other side of the room, and I needed to solve a case. Much like right now. The letter, please?” He prompted, growing impatient. John and Lestrade winced and Donovan sat, blessedly silent, her mouth hanging open, watching at flames nearly leapt from Jennica’s eyes.

“You left because he needed you to bring him his laptop?!” She cried, fists balling in indignation, drawing the attention of the forensics crew across the hall.

“I didn’t know that all he wanted when he texted me,” John said, hands up, ready for physical defense, should the scorned woman launch an attack.

“Well, I hope you two are very happy together,” she spat venomously at John before hurrying off, slamming the door to her bedroom like a petulant child.

“Thanks a lot for that!” John cried, throwing his hands in the air looking exasperatedly at his personal pain in the arse.

“What? I didn’t do anything!” Sherlock said, feigning innocence. “Now where did she put that bloody letter?”

“Wait, hold on a moment,” Lestrade said, raising a halting hand. “You left _that_ ,” he pointed to the bedroom door the angry blonde beauty just disappeared behind. “For _that_?” he pointed at Sherlock, who was tossing pillows and throwing blankets on the ground, looking through the cushions of the sofa.

“God help me,” John said, nodding his head slowly, running a hand down his face. “I didn’t even get her number before I left.” John and Lestrade shared a moment of silence to commemorate the loss of what could’ve been a very pretty girlfriend. Even if she was a touch boring in bed.

“Well,” Lestrade asked after a couple seconds of mourning. “Did you at least get a leg over first?”

“’Course I did,” John answered, channeling his own inner Sherlock, giving his tone the weight of an implied _‘Obvious.’_ “I may skip out on pillow talk and breakfast to help Sherlock out,” John began, a boyish grin stealing over his face. “But miss a good shag? Not on his life.”

“Please, John,” came Sherlock’s carpet-muffled reply as he crawled on the ground, feeling around under the sofa. “It was an average shag at best.” John shrugged in acquiesce. “Besides, she is much too demanding of a partner for you to invest any time in. She’d never put up with me.”

                “And we couldn’t have that, now could we?” John said, playfully kicking Sherlock’s foot as he wiggled himself farther under the couch.

                “Of course not,” Sherlock replied, eyes lighting up as he finally felt the smooth slide of paper under his fingertips. “Then we wouldn’t be having this much fun!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Formatting's a little wonky, sorry about that, something didn't copy right. Anywho, hope yall enjoyed it!


	4. The Games He Can Play

4.

                John was in a back booth of a pub he didn’t frequent, pressed tightly into the corner of booth and wall by a beautiful lapful of needy, willing and very aroused woman. She smelled like honey and cinnamon and tasted like _want._ She straddled his thighs in the cramped booth, the table biting into her lower back as she forced herself as close to John as possible. She was pale and soft, a dusting of freckles over her nose and shoulders, and her short, dark brown hair curled around her face and her dark grey eyes. And for some undetermined reason, she seemed to think she was in charge.

                “You like that, John?” she asked, grinding down on his half hard cock, her voice dripping with thinly disguised need; painful want masquerading as dominance. John was sure it had worked on plenty of other men, men who liked the idea of a woman taking the reins. Little did this little vixen know, that wasn’t exactly the game John was looking to play, not tonight. But he liked letting her think it was, until he changed her mind so fast it spun, the only thought not dislodged from her brain being _JohnJohngodyespleaseJohn._

                John was content with humming noncommittally into her mouth, letting her think he was assenting to her power play. He let her tug on his short hair, one hand sliding down his stomach to trace back and forth over his belt buckle. He let her shove her tongue halfway down his throat and then bite the shit out of his lips and neck. She pulled back with a grin, her hands sliding up to his shoulders, trying to get him to chase her, to protest the loss of lips, to beg for it.

                He wouldn’t. He decided he’d had enough of her game. Time to start his own.

                His gaze sharpened and he grinned devilishly. Her steel grey eyes clouded with confusion before opening wide in surprise as she quickly found herself being whipped around, lifted from John’s lap as he stood and spun, graceful in the tight quarters, to plant her hard on the bench seat, one knee sliding between her thighs, his head well above hers, arms caging her in.

                “You like this, Jess?” he purred, sounding like sex and danger as his dark eyes bore down into hers. She seemed to recover herself, frowning at their change of roles, opening her mouth to complain. She didn’t get the chance, however, as John had another signature Watson move for this type of situation.

                John grabbed her firmly but carefully by the neck, his hand right below her jaw, his thumb braced against the underside of her chin, tipping her head completely up, pressing himself tightly against her, dropping his head right above hers. He was all she could feel, all she could see, the very picture of dominance. He paused, giving her ample time to launch a genuine protest. But the only sound that came from her was a high pitched, needy keen as her fingers knotted in his striped jumper and her mouth opened and eyes closed.

                John smiled at the permission, the invitation, the utter surrender of the woman who seconds ago thought she was calling the shots. He crashed his lips to hers with bruising force, his tongue twisting and pulling against hers, the hand not wrapped around her throat choosing to slide up underneath her shirt instead. She began to moan at the feeling of his hand on her breast, but it was cut off by a gasp when he flicked her short nail across the hard nub of her nipple, his hand on her throat feeling the ripple as she swallowed before speaking.

                “Outside, please,” she whispered against his lips. “You can have me against the wall out back. _Please.”_ Her eyes were blown wide, barely a sliver of silver left and her voice was husky with need and lust. He chuckled and she keened at the feeling of his chest rumbling against her.

                “I know I could,” he growled in her ear, relishing in the tremors his voice sent through her. “But the thing is,” he paused, taking the time to press another kiss to her open and swollen lips. “The things I want to do to you,” he said, mouth back at her ear, flicking his tongue teasingly along the shell. “Can’t all be done against a wall.” She shuddered again, trying to nod, but finding her movement still constricted by John’s hand on her neck.

                “Your place,” she panted, eyes rolling as John continued to press tiny kisses from her temple to the corner of her mouth. “I’m staying with family, no room, no privacy.”

                “Shh,” John soothed her, his gentle words and featherlight caresses at odds with the strength of his hand under her jaw and the pressure he levied against her entire body. “I can take you home,” he crooned, running just the tip of his tongue along the curve of her pink, pouting bottom lip. “Would you like to come home with me?”

                “God, _yes_ ,” she whined, pressing as much of herself against him as she could, but not struggling out of the hold he had on her jaw. “ _Please,_ John, take me home.”

                He grinned. My, how the tables have turned.

 

)()()()()()(

 

                John was beyond relieved to find Sherlock was out when he guided a very eager Jess up the stairs to his bedroom. He had given her free range of his body in the cab on the way here, and she had regained a bit of feisty dominance, cupping his through his jeans and nibbling on his ear and down his neck. John was eager to get her in bed and remind her exactly what game they were playing. And who was winning.

                The second he stepped through the door, she dropped her dress, the dark material pooling around her smooth, pale feet. He grinned, kicking the door closed, quickly crossing the room to crowd into the short woman’s space. He pushed her back until she sat on the edge of his bed. She started to lean back, lengthening her body seductively, trying to draw him down with her. But John had one more trick, one more move he wanted to use, to see how far she’d let this game go. Grabbing her wrist, he pulled her back up and into him. Resuming the grip he had used on her throat in the bar, he dropped his lips to hers once more. After several sweet, shallow kisses, he whispered a quiet entreatment in her ear, stepping away from the game for just the second it took to ensure he did this right and safe.

                “Trust me?” he asked her, needing permission. After all, this was a game, and he had to make sure she wanted to play. She nodded her head, the movement slight and constrained by the hand braced under her jaw, but a “yes” nonetheless.

                Without wasting another second, John latched onto her lips, kissing her deeply, making her moan and writhe underneath him. He tongued her mouth open, then sealed his lips over hers. Breathing out through his nose, he felt her hands fist in his jumper as he slowly began sucking the air from her mouth. Breathing in through his mouth, lips tightly closed around Jessica’s, he gently but firmly pulled the very air from her lungs. He held her breath for her, the most complete and utter show of control over another.

                He held her steady, gently sliding his tongue against hers as she sat, literally breathless, clinging tightly to him. She was tense for amount, caught between enjoyment and discomfort, before the claws in his jumper relaxed once more into smooth, delicate hands, sliding down his sides and hooking into his waist band. He smiled against her lips, breaking the seal and she drew a shaky breath, eyes heavily lidded, but nearly black with desire. HE held her breath in his lungs for another moment, before tilting her back, laying her out on his bed and slowly, teasing blowing the air, her stolen breath, over her sensitive skin. Goosebumps burst over her arms and chest without a single touch from John, and she lay back without struggle, completely complacent, utterly willing and absolutely _ready._

 

)()()()()()(

 

                Sherlock came bursting into the flat, moving completely on autopilot, nose buried in a book. _‘Of course!’_ he thought gleefully, unable to contain his excitement at stumbling so perfectly onto a very plausible lead. His eyes were devouring the information before him, memorizing each page for the identical book he was forming in his Mind Palace, to be referred to any time he might need it. He started heading up the stairs, to John’s room. It was late and Sherlock knew from the slightly disturbed doormat that he as home.

                He was so consumed in his book, and so focused on this case that he didn’t notice any peculiarities in the smell or sounds of the flat. He was simply too eager to get John and get going. If he was right and they didn’t act soon, he’d lose their killer tonight, and they’d be finding another body before he disappeared for good. Reaching the top of the stairs, Sherlock nudged the door open with his shoulder, poking his head in to rouse John.

                “John—“ Sherlock’s greeting was cut off as his brain came to a screeching halt at what he saw on the other side of the doorway. A beautiful, dark haired, small-breasted woman lay naked on John’s bed, hands cuffed to the headboard, red bites and bruises standing out glaringly from the pale skin of her throat and chest. Her legs were spread obscenely wide, one hanging off the bed, the other hooked over John’s shoulder. _John._

                John looked amazing. His skin was dark and flushed, and he moved with the grace and power of a swollen river. He was completely naked except for his white t-shirt, which he was holding up with one hand, supposedly at the woman’s request. Pulling his shirt up, he exposed the hard lines of his stomach, and _oh God,_ Sherlock immediately understood why he was doing it.

Even in the split second Sherlock had to look, he was immediately taken with the sight of John thrusting into this woman’s welcoming warmth. John rolled through each thrust, the muscles roping his abdomen rippling with each rise and swell as John pressed himself smoothly against the spread of her thighs, moving like the waves of the ocean. His rhythm was slow and smooth, designed to sustain pleasure, keeping her just on the edge before plummeting over. And based off of the gleam of her skin, the red around her wrists and the desperate _pleasepleaseplease_ that was pouring out of her mouth, Sherlock guessed he’d been at it for a while.

A while that would soon be coming to an end though, unfortunately for the girl, but fortunately for Sherlock. _‘Wait, what was that? Fortunate for me? Interesting thought, flagged for later consideration.’_ One of them would notice his presence in the doorway soon enough. He’d only been there a second. The first half second was spent struggling to think through the red hot arousal shooting through him at seeing John so wildly sexual. The second half second turned that pooling heat in his stomach to a cold, clenching sensation that Sherlock didn’t think he had a name for quite yet. _‘Another thought, flagged for review.’_

But they had a case, Sherlock had a lead and the killers were leaving London tonight. Even so, Sherlock took one last second to watch appreciatively as John so expertly fucked. Shaking his head, Sherlock launched his defense before he was caught out. He took one step back from the doorway, tearing his eyes from John’s hard, glistening thighs and his rippling, rolling abdomen. He promptly turned his back, covered his ears, and kicked back, the door hitting the wall behind him. He heard the woman shriek and John curse, losing rhythm and hurriedly working to cover his lover’s exposed body. Sherlock heard all this, grimacing.

“John, please make yourself presentable, we have a new lead,” he said, his voice portraying a calm he certainly did not feel. His stomach churned with that uncomfortable feeling. He was beginning to fear he was being overcome by something as mundane as jealousy, But that couldn’t be right. _‘Flagged for later study.’_

“Fuck! Sherlock! What the hell is wrong with you?!” John cried angrily, and Sherlock was glad for the excuse to keep his back turned. He hated seeing John angry at him. _Well, that would support the jealousy theory,’_ he thought, before mentally snapping at himself. _‘Flagged for_ **later** _review. We’ve killers to catch and only one night to do it. I haven’t the time for frivolous emotions.’_

“John, I understand this is an… unfortunate time, but it cannot be helped,” Sherlock insisted.

“Seriously, Sherlock?!” John voice rose even higher. “You couldn’t have waited fifteen minutes?!”

“John, we both know if I’d left you undisturbed, it would’ve been much, much longer than fifteen minutes.” Sherlock kept his voice bland, but his stomach clenched painfully once again. “Besides, I have very firm reasoning to support the fact that if we do not act in the next three hours, we will not only lose the murderers, possibly forever, but also find at least one more body by morning.” Sherlock knew John would not argue now. If he knew anything about his John ( ** _his_** _John? Later review_ ) it was that if innocent life was in danger, and he could save it, he’d drop everything and anything he had to.

“And you couldn’t do it alone?” John asked, his anger subsiding, replaced by exasperation.

“Of course I could,” Sherlock said, not quite sure if that was completely true anymore. “But it’s a group, not a solitary killer, thus my use of the plural,” Sherlock sneered, hoping to alleviate the discomfort in his gut. Didn’t work. “Likely armed, thusly, it would be much more efficient if you were there for ballistic assistance.” John sighed, still angry, but now more at a lost opportunity than at Sherlock.

“Fuck,” he sighed, and Sherlock could imagine him running his hand down over his face, carefully making eye contact with the brunette bound to his bed, quiet thus far, but undoubtedly very frustrated at being teased for so long without release. “Can you give me ten more minutes?” John said, almost pleadingly. _‘What a considerate lover,’_ Sherlock thought, with a strange feeling of sadness as he gazed down at his very neglected, currently flagging erection. Seeing and hearing this part of John make all his deductions about his sexual activity seem so crass and ugly. What he wouldn’t give to feel that sort of skill and devotion for himself. _‘For the love of God! LATER REVIEW! Now get out of my head!’_

“We really don’t have the time, John,” Sherlock said, not apologizing, but as close as he’d ever get. He was thankful it was true, but he’d still have lied even if It wasn’t. “I’ll be waiting downstairs. Dress darkly.” And he was gone, knowing better than to look over his shoulder, not wanting to give John or his playmate the idea that he had seen or heard anything.

What John did know Sherlock heard was the shouted abuse Jessica had hurled at him as he unlocked her from the bed and she hastily dressed. His apologies fell on dead ears as Jess, angry at being so carelessly abandoned and frustrated at being stolen from the throes of passion. There was a loud thump as what sounded like a heavy high heeled shoe connected harshly with a wall, as if thrown. Sherlock proved his deductions correct when another shoe was hurled at his head as Jess came barreling down the stairs.

“You’re a twisted man, John!” She cried, and Sherlock suppressed a smirk at the realization that she didn’t know John’s last name. “You’re so _devoted_ ” she spat the word like a curse. “To your bloody flatmate, you’ve even taking to bringing girls home that look like him!” John’s jaw dropped, shock overcoming his features for a full two seconds before he began a sputtering, stuttering defense. “Oh shove it!” the woman yelled angrily, adjusting the fall of her deep, plum colored dress, her hand running back through her ear length, curly dark hair. “Just fuck him already and leave us normal people out of it!”


	5. So, I Guess You're the Jealous Type?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long coming you guys! For anyone still reading, I thank you, and hope this chapter does you proud!

5.

 

God, she was perfect. She was like him in so many ways. She was kind and intelligent, her parents were blue collar, just like his. She was conservative, religious, beautiful with the subtle blush of femininity, exactly like the woman he’d always imagined ending up with. Could be stroppy at times, but John sort of liked her fire, liked that she believed what she believed and could never be swayed. She smelled like dark green clover and bright red apples and tasted like the sky after rain. She was thin and pale, her hair dark against her skin and her light blue eyes. Her lips were a perfect pink, plump and sharp, always ready with a quick retort or insightful comment.

 _‘Any resemblance to my mad flatmate is purely coincidental,’_ John reminded himself firmly. But even he was beginning to think it wasn’t true. Especially considering Sherlock was nearly always around, always reminding him of their similarities. Like today, for example. John had taken Deborah to the museum, a new exhibit was being held there, centered on the evolutions of classic languages. As a linguistics professor, it was perfect for Deborah.

And, incidentally, Sherlock.

John gaped with an open mouth when Sherlock appeared behind him as he and Deborah peered into a display case containing a hundred year old manuscript. But Sherlock was quick to inquire to John as to why he would be surprised to see Sherlock here, as this is one of the few museum exhibits he would define as _not-boring._

Thus, what had started as a wonderful date, likely to end in Deborah’s bed, had turned into a disaster that was ending in a pub.

“Deborah, would you like to go for a drink?” John asked, tiredly dragging a hand down his face, with an apologetic smile. They were getting ready to leave, and John felt as though he owed it to her, a couple drinks to help salvage the day. She nodded, smiling at him reassuringly, taking his hand and squeezing it.

“So I guess I’ll see you at home, Sherlock?” John asked, as the three of them exited the museum, the pub one way, Baker Street the other.

“I actually find myself a little peckish,” Sherlock said, not looking at John as he began walking down the street. _The wrong way_.

“We have leftover take-out at home, Sherlock,” John said, not at all wanting Sherlock to accompany him to the pub.

“Nonsense. The closest pub you like actually provides rather decent food. I shall eat there.” Sherlock was resolute, his nose in the air as he lead the way to the pub he knew John would’ve chosen. He had been spending more time than strictly necessary with John. It was an experiment, of sorts. Since that night outside his bedroom door, Sherlock had become increasingly, painfully _aware_ of John. He had attempted to thinking through these new stirrings of emotions he felt for his flatmate. But it was so difficult, so contrived. He felt so very conflicted, it wasn’t hard to focus and thinking it all through. So, he automatically did what he always did; he spent time close to John. He always thought better when John was around. But it was a whole different game to use John’s presence to focus when it was his new reaction to John’s presence that he was trying to figure out.

To solve this conundrum, break the paradox, so to speak, Sherlock began spending exorbitant amounts of time with John, forcing himself to focus on his feelings and reactions to the man. It was strange for Sherlock to spend so much time dwelling in the realm of emotions he had so long repressed. But at the same time, when around John, thinking about John, being with John, most of the emotions he felt were… pleasant.

And so, he quickly arrived at the decision to chaperone John’s date all the way to the pub, imagining it would probably end with John away from the house for the night if he did not. But it was for a completely different reason that Sherlock came to truly love his decision.

Upon reaching the bar, one of John’s favorite where he had occasionally met an old friend or two from the army, Sherlock was pleased to see it was rather empty. He reached the door first, holding it open for John, ushering him in with a hand on his back, perhaps a little lower than strictly hetero, but John either didn’t notice, or didn’t say anything. Not until Sherlock dropped the door right on Deborah’s indignant face.

“Sherlock,” John chastised, as Deborah humphed through the door, but Sherlock merely continued pushing John towards the bar, the hand on his back sending the most peculiar heat up his arm. Sherlock wondered how just how warm he would feel if he slipped his hand under John’s coat and jumper, pressing against the curve of his spine. He imagined it would feel very good, very hot. He would rather like stroking his thumb across the soft skin there, rubbing over the strong ridge of bone.

Sherlock was brought rather abruptly out of his musings by a loud voice, calling his John’s name.

“John? Captain John Watson?” an excited man asked, hopping of his barstool and making his way around the bar to them. Sherlock scowled at the man, having been brought rudely from what a lesser man might call a fantasy. His scowl deepened when John responded, apparently pleased at seeing the man, and Deborah could be heard behind them, asking idiotic questions about who this man was and how John knew him.

 _‘Obviously, he was another army friend, if the blithering woman had bothered listening to the way he addressed John,’_ Sherlock thought scaldingly. _‘Slightly younger, by maybe four or five years, single but friendly. Attractive, very much so, in a boy-next-door kinda way. Tanned from time abroad, his hair a darker gold than John’s, comically big cholate colored eyes. Not too tall, 5’10” and well-muscled, strong from serving. Knew John well, but only in the army, not before, and not after, until today. Not out of the service yet, having apparently fared better in the war than John had.”_

Sherlock’s deductions probably wouldn’t have gone deeper than that, had he not caught something else in the new man’s eyes. Joy, pure, unadulterated happiness at seeing his friend once again. Not just ‘good to see you again, mate’ happiness, but ‘I missed you so much, I'm so glad to see you again!’ kind of happiness. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, eager to watch this interaction closely.

Having crossed the room to stand before the pair (and Deborah, who stood awkwardly behind them, beginning a pout at being so rudely ignored), the man stuttered in his steps, as if having to restrain himself from throwing himself bodily around John, his face a wide grin, with only a hint of sadness lurking deep in his wide, dark brown eyes.

“Darren?” John asked, a little too excitedly, turning Sherlock’s scowl into a look of surprise when he saw the look on John’s face. John was smiling as well, grinning uninhibitedly at this stranger. John usually didn’t like meeting up or running into his army friends. Sherlock knew it made John jealous, and then he felt bad for feeling jealous, so he tried too hard to be happy to see them and just came home disappointed. But this man, this soldier, John seemed genuinely pleased to see again. _‘Interesting.’_

“God, John, it’s been so long,” Darren expressed, his arms twitching at his sides as if he wanted nothing more than to hug John.

“It has, I know!” John said excitedly. “It’s really, really good to see you!”

“And in one piece and everything!” Darren joked with a grin, too dull to catch the wince that flew fleetingly across John’s face as he rolled his shoulder. Sherlock suddenly felt the uncomfortable need to hug John, maybe even brush his lips over his beautifully damaged shoulder. He repressed it.

“You look great, by the way. But, I gotta say,” Darren said with a laugh. “I didn’t peg you as the jumper type!”

“Hey,” John said in good-natured defense. Sherlock frowned. John always got cross when he mocked his jumpers, but this stranger could use it as small talk?! “They’re comfortable!”

“To be honest, Johnny, I like you better in fatigues. Even if they were… scratchy.”

The sentence alone, the expression of preference in what John wore, was enough to pique Sherlock’s interest forward. But combined with the dark gleam in Darren’s eyes, the casual but suggestive way he slid a hand down into his back pocket, licking his lips, and the blush that raced over John’s cheeks? Sherlock was in full deduction mode, his eyes scouring the two men in front of him, taking his time, missing nothing.

“So, is this your… boyfriend?” Darren asked after a beat of silence, seemingly just now recognizing Sherlock’s presence. Sherlock noticed with immense interest the look of disappointment on Darren’s face before he made quick work of masking it. John didn’t answer right away, his cheeks painted pink from Darren’s previous comment, seemingly suck in his head. He was brought out by Deborah’s squeak at Darren’s assumption.

“Oh, no, this is Sherlock, my flatmate,” John said, seemingly just noticing Sherlock’s hand on his back. He took a step away, and Sherlock heard him introducing Deborah as well. But what Sherlock really cared about was the fact that John didn’t immediately defend his sexuality. Sherlock had known for quite a while that John was at least a little bisexual, but hadn’t been with any men since he’d moved in. But he didn’t exalt his heterosexuality like he usually did to this Darren fellow. Almost as if Darren knew better…

“Oh! OH!” Sherlock exclaimed, eyes blowing wide, his hands coming up in front of his face like he usually did when he had one of these brilliant revelations. Normally, John would immediately turn to Sherlock, asking him what it was, ready to run off after any lead Sherlock gave him. This time, however, he merely looked over to Sherlock with panic and alarm. Alarm as though he’d just been found out…

“Oh this is absolutely wonderful!” Sherlock said with a big, toothy grin. “I’m so pleased to finally meet you!” He said with sincerity, stepping forward to shake a stunned Darren’s hand. "Really, it's an honor! I've wondered for so long, and I have to admit, I can't say that you disappoint!" 

“Nice to meet you, too,” Darren said, surprised but reflexively shaking the hand in his. Darren looked over to John, confusion clear on his face, even as he smiled. “John talks about me, then?”

“Not a word, are you kidding? No, he’d never mention you!” Sherlock said with what could’ve been classified as glee.

“He wouldn’t?” Darren asked, looking hurt, pulling his hand from Sherlock’s excited grip, turning sad eyes to John.

“No, never!” Sherlock said, oblivious to Darren’s wounded expression.

“Wait, sorry, John, who is this?” Deborah asked, now standing on John’s other side.

“Oh, sorry, Deborah, how rude of me,” Sherlock said, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. John shot him a pleading look. Sherlock was undeterred. “Darren, here, was John’s first homosexual experience!”

John, sputtered, face burning red. Darren took an awkward step backwards. Deborah slapped a hand over her mouth, looking angry and sick. Sherlock merely giggled, rising up onto his toes before dropping happily back down to his heels, every bit of him expounding glee.

“Sherlock!” John cried, his voice cracking in panic.

"Well, actually, I can't say that this man was his first," Sherlock amended, seeing the slight quirk of Darren's head as a negation. "Or his last," he continued, at John's even worsening blush. "But yes, Deborah, these two have definitely had homosexual penetrative sex!" Sherlock clapped his hands together in delight.

“John!” Deborah shrieked, much too loud for the public setting. “What is he talking about John?” Sherlock hated it when women got all high-pitched. It hurt his ears. “Are you… gay?” she asked, whispering the last word like she was afraid of it.

“No, Deborah, it’s not like that,” John started, but Deborah was turning green.

“Then what’s it like? You put your… in a man’s… And then me? Oh, my God, that's disgusting! No, I can’t even. I can’t do this,” Deborah said, her eyes wild, a hand covering her mouth. She whirled around, and rushed out of the bar, presumably to run outside and vomit profusely, before running home and never calling John again. Sherlock just stood there, grinning, hands in his pockets, bouncing on his heels.

“Hey, Johnny, I’m sorry,” Darren said, rubbing his neck awkwardly.

“Don’t be, Darren,” John said, turning back to him. “Look, I gotta go after her, but I’d really like to see you again.” John said, taking a step away from them, before turning back. “Not, like, _see_ you again, but you know, catch up.”

“Yeah, no worries,” Darren said, doing a fair job of covering his crestfallen expression. “I’ll get your number from you’re friend here, go on after her.”

“Cheers, mate,” John said, flashing a quick, halfhearted smile at Darren and a long, intense, severe, horrible, absolutely _murderous_ glare at Sherlock, before jogging out the door to find his likely dry-heaving, likely ex, girlfriend.

Darren cleared his throat, drawing Sherlock’s gaze back to him, and not from where John’s retreating figure had just been. _‘Thought for later dissection: responded with arousal when observing John’s posterior as he ran.’_

“So,” Darren said, and he had a small, sad smile on his face when Sherlock looked at him in annoyance. “I guess you’re the jealous type, hmm?”

Sherlock blinked in surprise.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock asked, recovering himself. “Did you somehow miss everything that just happened? John isn’t mine.”

“Maybe not, but you sure are his,” Darren said. Sherlock baulked.

“You don’t know a thing about me,” Sherlock hissed at him, aggression overcoming his face like a tsunami.

“No, I don’t,” Darren assented, hands up but not backing down. “But I know John. Better than most people.”

“You haven’t known John for years,” Sherlock challenged angrily. “You have no idea what kind of man he is now.”

“I know John," he said with assurance. "I know he’s a good man, especially when it comes to the people he involves himself romantically with.”

“John pulls a different girl ever week,” Sherlock sneered.

“I mean real relationships. Like girlfriends and boyfriends.” Darren said. “And flatshares.” Sherlock watched him carefully, debating whether he’d rather verbally whip this man who’d touched his John into a sniveling mess, or milk him for information. The decision was easily made, as Darren seemed more than willing to share.

“Look, mate, John takes relationships very seriously. We started out just as tour-boys, you know how it goes. We were in two different squadrons, stationed together in some bloody desert. We were bored, and it just happened. Nothing serious, just a body to get off with. But about a month after we started, John was promoted to Major General. It was our first real fight. I was only a Major Lieutenant, and for a couple days I was mad at John, jealous that his promotion came through before mine did. Even after I got over myself, though, John wouldn’t touch me until I got my new papers. He wasn’t punishing me for being angry, he was looking out for me. He saw how mad I’d been, and when I came back to him, he was afraid that I did it because I felt like I had to, ‘cause he outranked me. John didn’t so much as kiss me goodbye before patrols until my promotion came through to our unit out in bloody nowhere. He waited until I was his equal again, until he was sure it would never be forced, or obligatory. It was then that I realized I loved him.” Darren looked down with a reminiscent smile on his face. By the time he looked up, however, the smile was gone and a blank, very solider-like face was there in its stead.

“And then, only two weeks later, John’s truck hit an IED in an ambush and they got pinned down in a firefight. It was rough, one of the worst we'd seen out there. More than half of John’s men died, and he got one nasty shrapnel wound on his back. I was so scared for him. It had been one thing, just sitting in the hot sand together, going on our patrols, getting into little, no-causality scrimmages with small bands of hostiles. But after that? Everything was different. Next time we were together, I told John I wanted to be more than just a fuck. He started taking me seriously, like a real boyfriend, he really cared. You know how he is, always taking care of people, especially those he loves.”

“And John loved you, then?” Sherlock said, trying to bury the jealousy prodding at him. Jealousy didn't sit well in Sherlock Holmes. It felt sharp and spiked, prodding him in heart-deep places when he least expected it. _'How novel.' __he thought. _'How human.'__

“Yes, he did,” Darren said, with assurance. “We were together for two and a half months after that before John and what was left of his unit got shipped out somewhere else. I didn’t see him again for another four months. And it was another two months of being together again that, for the first time since he got that scar on his back, John fucked me with his shirt off. But even then, he wouldn’t let me see it, wouldn’t let me touch it, not when it was still fresh and bleeding, and not when it was old and scarred.”

Sherlock thought back to how John had kept his shirt on when he had seen him was fucking that woman. Sherlock thought about how he never slept bare-chested and never left the bathroom in anything less than pants, a vest and his bathrobe.

“What I'm trying to say,” Darren said, seeing that Sherlock had momentarily drawn himself into his head. “Is that John keeps things that make him feel weak really close to the vest. He doesn’t let anyone in on anything he thinks might compromise him unless he fully trusts and loves them. If he’s been telling people he’s completely straight and always has been, I’d say it’s because he doesn’t want to let anybody in on the fact that he might be in love with you.”

“And, what would lead you to that conclusion?” Sherlock asked slowly, pleased that this soldier hadn’t proven to be completely useless, or completely idiotic, but wary as to what he might think he knows of him and John.

“That place on his back, where you had your hand when you walked in? That’s where the scar is, the one I’ve never been allowed to even look at.” Darren said, with a sad shake of his head. “And he barely even noticed you were touching it. For John, that’s the greatest amount of trust or love he has to give. And it looks like he doesn’t even know he gave it to you.”


	6. We All Have Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock shows John that scars are what make you strong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you guys, thank you all for being so patient and encouraging as you waited for me to finish this story. I have to admit, this chapter is way longer than I had planned, and it went a little deeper than I had originally anticipated this fic to be. But, nevertheless, I hope you all like it, and as always, I would love some feedback! Hope you've enjoyed the journey :)

+1

 

Things have been tense in 221B. Both men had subtly shifted their view of the other, although neither knew of the change in his opposite. Sherlock was too caught up in all of his new, unexpected and rather uncomfortable emotions to deduce the reason behind all the awkward good mornings, and hasty good nights. And ever since John’s run in with Darren, and his subsequent breakup, John’s fantasies had taken a decidedly less hetero turn. Much like this morning.

John dreamt of the hot desert sun, burning sand against his back, sweat that was beading on his skin. Thick, tanned limbs and dark chocolate eyes seemed to swallow his entire reality as he’s overrun by the indescribable feeling of being balls deep inside another man. He felt Darren’s hand centered on his chest as he rocked and rolled on top of him. Darren’s handsome face blocked out the sun, casting John in the shadow of the man riding his cock, wringing cries and groans of pleasure from his deep within his chest. His heart beat so fast John felt it in his curled toes, and Darren’s body squeezed around his cock so tightly it tore the very breath from his lungs. But when Darren let out a soft, breathy moan, it wasn’t his voice. It was then that John’s dream began its transformation.

Hot sand turned to cool silk. Dense, tan arms turned pale and sinuous, and dark brown eyes turned to glowing verdigris. Suddenly, the way dreams suddenly change without feeling the motion at all, John had a handful of inky black curls as he pressed himself down against the writhing mass of sharp angles and soft skin beneath him. He snapped his hips forward, loving the way the strong thighs on either side of him gave with limber flexibility as he pushed himself as deep as possible. Long pale fingers scratched down John’s back, the stinging pleasure-pain causing his fingers to clench even tighter in Sherlock’s raven hair, drawing a hiss from the other man’s plump, parted lips. John bent to kiss him, warm tongues sliding together as their lips brushed carelessly, eyes squeezed shut and breath mixing in each other’s mouths. John dropped his head to smear kisses against the pale, perfect, flawless shoulder beneath him and a rumbling baritone whispered and whined increasingly filthy things in his ear as he fucked his flatmate into a senseless frenzy.

And then all at once John was awake, sweaty and sticky in cum-covered sheets. Like almost every morning that week. Every time John dreamt, it started as Darren, or some other nameless male, but it always ended up being Sherlock he lost himself in. And it was beginning to drive him mad.

John would walk down into the kitchen after finally collecting himself from one of these *eh hemm* _explosive_ dreams, and there Sherlock would be. And instead of ignoring John like Sherlock often did in the mornings, while John did “stupid human” things such as make breakfast and use the lav, Sherlock suddenly seemed very keen on studying John, watching him carefully, often coming to stand just a few feet away. Never saying anything, unless directly asked, just standing and watching.

It made John incredibly uneasy.

It did the same for Sherlock.

He couldn’t seem to help the compulsion. John would walk into the room, and Sherlock would walk over to him. The first time, he did it completely on autopilot, surprising himself when his eyes actually focused and saw he was only feet from John’s back and John was asking him what he wanted. He didn’t know. He seemed to simply gravitate to the man. The deeper he was in thought at the time, the closer he got. Subconsciously, he knew he was doing it because it was easier to think when he was around John, when he could soak in the welcome, pleasing warmth that was John. But it was difficult for him to use John’s proximity to clear his mind when it was proximity to John that he was busy thinking about.

Luckily, John didn’t seem inclined to talk about Sherlock’s strange and sudden new habit. He was quiet as he made his tea and settled for letting Sherlock watch him from his chair as he sank down into his own, seemingly deep in thought himself. Both thought of the other, and the new attraction they both felt, but worked very hard not to show, partly out of fear and partly out of necessity, as neither of the boys seemed to know what any of this meant.

 

*******

 

“What do you mean, someone took him?” John asked hurriedly into his phone as he rushed from the surgery, shoving his arms into his coat.

“I mean he was walking down the street, and a group of guys pulled up in a bloody van and took him!” Lestrade answered, the faint sounds of London traffic in the back ground as he sped to the abduction site.

“Where was Sherlock headed?” John asked, desperate for more information.

“We thought you’d know.”

“Well, did you give him a new case today while I was at work?”

“No, he’s just got that arson case I handed him the other day. You know, the one he said was boring,”

“Oh no,” John said, worry really taking hold now. “That’s not good.”

“Why? Why’s that not good?” Lestrade questioned. “Think he went after them?”

“He’s not interested in the arson group. Said the guys were “low level amateurs looking for publicity, not murder”, he told me so as we were leaving the Met.”

“Okay, so he’s not on a case. So where was he going?” Lestrade asked again, losing patience.

“Nowhere, he wasn’t going anywhere,” John said with increasing distress, running a hand down his face.

“John, if you’re keeping something from me…” Lestrade trailed off. “We all know Sherlock doesn’t do anything without a reason.

“Normally, you’d be right.” John’s answer was a little distracted as he failed about to grab the attention of yet another cab. “But when Sherlock has something bothering him, something that isn’t a case, he walks. Walks nowhere, everywhere, it doesn’t matter. Moving, seeing people, breathing, it helps him work things out when lying on the couch, doing nothing, doesn’t work.”

“Well, what was he trying to work out?”

“I don’t know,” John said, popping into the cab and giving the driver the street off which Sherlock was taken.

“Well, what sort of thing does Sherlock need to walk off?” Lestrade asked, frustration clear in his voice.

“The little things that bother him, people things that he can’t figure out,” John said, looking helplessly out the window as the cab crept along through the traffic.

“ _Little things_ don’t bother Sherlock,” Lestrade answered shortly.

“Oh, c’mon, Greg,” John said, anger and disappointment clear in his voice. “He doesn’t care to admit it, but he is human. Little things get to him, too. When we have a row, when Mycroft brings up Mummy in an argument, when you reference his drug history, whenever there is something that forces Sherlock Holmes to _feel,_ he walks.”

“Well is whatever he was _feeling_ going to help us find who took him?” Lestrade asked.

“I don’t know, maybe,” John said, dragging a hand tiredly down his face.

“Do you think it was him?” Lestrade asked, a slight edge of fear in his voice.

“Moriarty? No, I don’t think so,” John said, feeling a slight bit of relief at the thought that at least the situation wasn’t Moriarty bad. “He likes a show, he would’ve wanted Sherlock to see it coming, planned it out over weeks, dragging us along. A quick snatch-and-grab? Nope, that’s the kind of treatment he saves for me.” John said without batting an eyelash, merely shrugging at the shocked expression the cab driver flashed in the review mirror.

“Anyone else you can think of who would want to take the prick?”

“I’ll start a list,” John said with utter sincerity. “See you soon.”

 

******

 

“If you value a working heart, you will let me go,” Sherlock said coolly, seemingly completely at ease in his chair, even though he was currently tied to it in the midst of swirling pools of spilt gasoline with a violent criminal at his back brandishing a knife and a lighter. Though Sherlock’s head was throbbing, and he wondered whether his legs would actually take his weight, this was hardly a crisis. John had appeared in the doorway merely seconds ago, and while Sherlock had had no way of telling John where his captor had taken him, he had every faith that he would be found. After all the time Sherlock had spent casually teaching John his methods, if his student hadn’t managed to find him, he was obviously a failure worthy of death. Much like the miscreant quaking behind him.

                “He won’t shoot me,” the arsonist said. “Not while I’ve got you with me.” His bravado was betrayed the flickering of his small flame as his hand shook, eyes glued to the barrel of the gun pointing directly at his chest from across the room. He glanced up to the face of the man holding it, and quickly looked back, finding the cold steel of the gun much more welcoming than the hard, blue fury and hate the good doctor had burning in his eyes.

                “Oh please, don’t be dull,” Sherlock snorted derisively even as a thin trickle of blood slid down his temple, the bump on the side of his head sending an echoing ache from where they’d hit him throughout his entire body. But that wasn’t about to stop Sherlock, not if John was here. “You poured gasoline on the floor, ooh how original. But you failed to do so in circles, circles which would ensure no one could get to me without being burned. As you merely left puddles and streams in no particular or strategic pattern, one could feasibly escape with only minimal burns. Amateur . Not to mention, you failed to pour any gas on me, my clothes or the chair. Again, amateur.” Sherlock rolled his head back towards his captor, but nailed John with a very meaningful look. Although neither John’s eyes nor gun wavered from his target, he gave an almost imperceptible nod, understanding Sherlock’s meaning and permission. Now all that was left undecided was whether this fool who had dared take his partner from him deserved a kill shot, or if John should leave him for the flames.

He was lucky he’d found them. It was only when Lestrade mentioned they had a suspect for the arson case come in the same time Sherlock and John were leaving. Apparently, he didn’t take well to being called amateur. So he and his little ring of pyro-buddies thought it would be wise, and undoubtedly good for publicity, to kidnap a genius detective and burn him to a crisp in their next arson attack. And if they had to listen to Sherlock talk for as long as they held him, they’d probably be starting that fire sooner rather than later.

And so, through quite a few very Sherlockesque deductions that John would probably feel very proud about later when he wasn’t burning with fury, John had arrived at the correct warehouse (third try, but don’t tell Sherlock) just in time. He saw the arsonists split up to start prepping the place for the best and biggest burn they could make, leaving one with Sherlock and the element of surprise with John. He called in to Lestrade, and rushed in, mapping the short hallways as he went. It was a small group, only four guys; John got two on his way in, before getting to Sherlock.

He supposed that he had incapacitated the other two so they wouldn’t start the fire, but once he knew where Sherlock was being held, he didn’t care about the other man loose in the building. Just the one holding a knife to Sherlock. He didn’t want to burn the place to the ground, but it seemed as though he would have to shoot this man, and he was holding a lighter, standing near gasoline. And John was okay with that. Sherlock assured him that he would get out safely, so who cares if the place goes up? It occurred to John, though it didn’t really matter, that in his scrimmage with one of the arsonists, the side of John’s jacket got a little splashed ( _read: soaked_ ) with the gas he was trailing around the building. It occurred to John that he’d probably get rather badly burned if he took the shot and got Sherlock free. It also occurred to John, and this thought actually mattered, that as long he got Sherlock out safe, it didn’t matter if he lost half his face to the flames. Sherlock was important. Sherlock was all that would ever truly matter.

“I’ll kill him!” the young, wild-eyed arsonist cried, waving his knife dangerously close to Sherlock’s throat and the lighter high over his head. “I swear to God, I will slit his throat and burn this whole fucking pla—”

The shot rang out, cutting off his all too serious threat. Straight through the heart. The knife dropped harmlessly into Sherlock’s lap, while the lighter flew backwards, landing in a puddle, flames leaping up immediately, crawling across the floor, claiming the room and climbing up into the air.

John was already moving. Gun tucked in the back of his jeans, eyes on Sherlock, John stepped into the blaze. Tracking the spread of flames, John pushed forward, relying on the clear paths on the floor, untouched by gas, little corridors lined with fire. The heat licked at his face and hands as the air was slowly stolen from the room. A sudden heat burned from the bottom corner of John’s jacket. He swatted at it distractedly as he finally reached Sherlock, ducking behind him and making quick work of his bonds. The room was bright and orange from the fire, gasoline spreading the blaze hot and fast, merciless and unforgiving, the flames intent on swallowing everything in its path. Smoke was filling the warehouse fast, even with the high ceilings, and Sherlock was compromised from the head wound.

“John!” Sherlock stood unsteadily as soon as he was free. John wrapped his left arm around his friend, taking his weight and pulling him against his good side, as he could feel the crawling heat as the jacket burned closer and closer to his skin, spreading to his jumper and the t-shirt underneath, the heat almost unbearable. But he didn’t have the time to take it off or smother it out, all he could think was _‘Get Sherlock out, get him out, he’s important, get Sherlock out, GET HIM OUT!’_

So the soldier in John took over, blocking the pain and leading a wobbly detective out as fast as he could. Holding Sherlock close, John carefully but quickly navigated through the spreading web of flames, hoping he made it to the door before all the clear pockets closed up and the fire swallowed them whole. Finally reaching the wall, John felt along the side for the door to the hallway, his eyes watering and running, Sherlock leaving harder and heavier against him as he struggled for breath.

They pushed their way into the hall John had come rushing down only moments ago, the smoke thicker in the smaller space, and John pulled Sherlock forward at a pace he didn’t think his lungs could hold for long. Recalling his mental map, John weaved through the passageways, vision clouded and running from the smoke, lungs burning as the air became hotter and the oxygen ran dangerously low. Finally, after several minutes of stumbling and dragging themselves down the hall, John put his shoulder to metal, pressing burning fabric against blistering skin, and the emergency exit door swung wide open.

 The slate grey sky was a welcome sight and the cool London air was a balm to their heated and seared skin. Sherlock gulped in air, his head spinning and his knees shaking, as John eased him down to the ground a safe distance from the building, both of them coughing and wheezing, distracting John from the heat eating its way over his skin. John focused, the solider in him pushing the pain aside again, and made quick work of patting out all the little pockets of flame on Sherlock’s long coat, thankful that it had protected him from the worst of the fire.

The doctor in John took over, deciding he didn’t like the way Sherlock was breathing at all. His head trauma and now respiratory distress from the smoke came together in a very not good combination. Luckily, as Sherlock’s vision swam and he fought the darkness creeping up on him, John could hear sirens. And they were moving fast. John continued to take his vitals and check his eyes, running his hands professionally down Sherlock’s body.

“John,” Sherlock croaked, eyes going wide at seeing the flames eating his way through John’s coat.

“Shh, ‘Lock, it’s fine, you’re alright,” John said, as he prodded at Sherlock’s ribcage in a way that made him wince and hiss.

“No, John, your coat,” Sherlock said again, lurching forward, trying to get to John, to help John, but the sudden movement was too much and Sherlock’s mind went dark.

 

*******

                John leaned heavily against the wall. His eyes were closed and his head tipped back as he tried as hard as he could to Not. Move. Anything.

                After the rush of adrenaline and endorphins had faded from his system, John was left shaky, tired and in a lot of pain. He had gotten quite the lecture from Lestrade, Sally, and two different paramedics for leaving burning clothes on too long. They didn’t seem to understand that for as long as Sherlock was in danger, John could burn to death if he had to.

                “Seriously, John, you were outside already!” Lestrade had shouted as he pulled up to the scene, seeing John still wearing a smoking jumper as he checked each and every bone of an unconscious, but very safe and alive madman. He was glad the group had been amateur; apparently their idea of torture was stomping on his foot. Fractured metatarsals, possibly sprained ankle. That was the extent of the check he’d done by the time the coppers and medics had pulled up, pouncing on John, stripping him of his burning clothes and seeing to him and Sherlock. “Sherlock was fine, you were both safe, you couldn’t have taken your jacket off any sooner?”

                “Are you really ready to risk your life for that man?” Donovan had cried as a paramedic pulled John’s charred t-shirt away from the thick, red, bubbly burns covering his right hip, about three inches in width, reaching from the waistband of his jeans to the bottom of his ribs, the bottom edge curling forward around his hip bone. “You almost got killed! Look at yourself!” John flushed red from anger and embarrassment, turning away from her incredulous and horror-stricken gaze. The paramedic chided him for twisting around so suddenly, torqueing already damaged skin and splitting open heat blisters. He merely shrugged his shoulder at that, but soon he was growling and cursing in pain as she picked bits of charred fabric out the wound before cleaning and wrapping it up.

He felt like he was still alight with flame, the adrenaline fading and the pain washing over him, beginning an assault John knew would last for days. But the pain was a good distraction from the disgust in Donovan’s eyes. It wasn’t the burn that hurt, it wasn’t the physical pain. It was the thought that he hadn’t been fast enough, he hadn’t been strong enough to get out without getting hurt, without looking weak. He fucking hated being pitied, having his injuries and scars judged against him, each one like proof he hadn’t been good enough. And this was going to be another one. And a big one at that.

                The agony had only gotten worse as his body battled exhaustion and shock as he waited in Sherlock’s hospital room. John had refused admittance, knowing they wouldn’t let him stay with Sherlock if he was their charge. They’d stick him in a bed, hook him to a drip and pump him full of drugs. Exactly what John would prescribe to a patient. But right now the patient was Sherlock, and his doctor was not about to leave his side. Figuratively, of course. John could’ve sat in the chair by Sherlock’s bed, held his hand until he woke up and John had to go back to pretending he wasn’t aware of his every single move and breath. But instead, John stood against the wall, watching his flatmate sleep from across the room. It had hurt too much to sit, and standing with a couple feet between them made it easier for John to keep his distance. He couldn’t imagine Sherlock would be very pleased to wake up to John running his hands down his arms, across his chest or through his hair. All the places John wanted to touch, all the _ways_ John wanted to touch him, but knew he couldn’t.

When Sherlock was taken, John faced facts. He wasn’t ready to say he was in love with the madman, but he knew for damn sure now that Sherlock was more than just a flatmate. More than just a friend. Sherlock was everything to John. When he was taken, so was John’s entire world. That was the only reason John could’ve ignored the pain of being eaten at by fire. He cared so much for Sherlock, that blasted git, that he couldn’t be arsed to care that his jacket was soaked with gas as he ran headlong into a burning warehouse. _‘Fuck, maybe I am in love with him.’_ But, to be completely honest, Sherlock was Sherlock, and John was just John. The John who had barely managed to get them out. The John who got himself one nasty burn in the process. The closest an incompetent idiot like John was to getting what he really wanted was gazing at the man he (maybe/probably) loved as he slept off a kidnapping.

                “You should really get yourself looked at,” Greg mumbled again, reminding John he was present as well. He sat slumped in the chair by Sherlock’s bed, having taken it only on John’s insistence.

                “I’m a doctor, too, remember?” John replied drily, eyes still closed, still leaning heavily against the wall.

                “I heard you cursing like a fucking sailor when that paramedic was patching you up, I know it’s hurting you something awful,” his friend urged again. He’d been trying to convince John to go get some pain medication for the twenty-some minutes they’d been sitting with Sherlock.

                “That’s typically how second degree burns feel,” John said, his voice cut sharp.

                “That’s why you should get yourself some pain killers, John,” Lestrade said with another long-suffering sigh.

                “If I’m medicated, they won’t let me take Sherlock home as his doctor. I’d be on heavy medication, and thus unfit to take on a patient,” John said. Again. “He’d never forgive me if, _on top of all of this_ , I didn’t even get him home at the end of the day.”

                “John, you pulled him out of a burning fucking building! Soaked in bloody gasoline, no less!” the Detective Inspector answered exasperatedly, seriously concerned at his friend’s apparent depression. “John, you did great today. If Sherlock wasn’t so bloody Sherlock, he’ll be damn proud of you when he wakes up.”

                “But he is Sherlock, and he won’t be.” Managing his pain was making John more honest than he’d typically be. But as he struggled through breathing, he didn’t much care. “This sodden burn is just going to be further proof that I let him down.”

                “John, you’ve got to know it’s not like that,” Lestrade said, leaning forward onto his elbows, his face haggard as he realized the depth of his friend’s distress.

                “What else can scars say?” John asked, his head rolling lazily, sad, empty eyes meeting the silver-haired detective’s concerned ones.

                “Christ, John. That’s one fucked up way of thinking,” was all Lestrade said, sinking deep into his chair, as if another ton had just be dropped on his already heavy laden shoulders. Normally, John would’ve noticed and would’ve cared that he was causing such a good, devoted friend so much needless worry over the likes of him. But right now John was too busy biting back nauseating pain and conserving energy for when Sherlock would finally come to.

                John really wanted Sherlock to wake up already, so he could take him home, force him to eat and put him to bed. John wanted to take care of Sherlock. But John was also grateful that the detective was still asleep. He didn’t want to see Sherlock’s face when he remembered the burn, when he remembered John had gotten himself injured. Sherlock needed someone who could keep up. Sherlock appreciated competence. If John couldn’t even take care of himself, how could he be relied on to take care of anyone else?

                John’s self-deprecation was cut short when a quiet groan came from the man across the room. John pushed himself up off the wall, biting his lip against the lancing pain his damaged skin shot up his spine to resonate in his already aching head. He had to pause, just a foot from the wall as he tried to regain some composure, swallowing down the agony his angry, swollen skin was radiating out.

                “John?” came a near silent call. Sherlock woke knowing without a shadow of a doubt that John would be there. And his John had never disappointed. But when Sherlock finally cracked his eyes, he saw the smooth face of the grey-haired Inspector beside him. Sherlock recoiled, pushing himself up and staring at Lestrade with abject horror. _‘John wasn’t in the chair, John was always in the chair, unless he was hurt too, if John wasn’t in his chair he had a room of his own, John was hurt, John was hurt and Sherlock wasn’t in his chair, John was hurt and no one was sitting in his chair—”_

                “Easy, easy,” Greg said, his voice calm as he studied Sherlock’s manic face, one hand on his shoulder, easing him back down. Which Sherlock only permitted after catching sight of John making his way across the room. “The both of you,” he added, tossing a glare at John, as he had tried rushing to Sherlock, only to suck wind at the agony in his side. Lestrade earned a glare of his own, from the now-conscious consultant lying in bed, glaring at him as if he was personally offended that Lestrade was very much _not John._

                “John?” Sherlock croaked again, voice rough from the smoke, but still making the name sound like a panicked demand.

                “Yeah, ‘Lock, right here,” John assured, crossing the room too quickly for his pained body to be happy about but covering it well for his friend, using the affectionate nickname Sherlock claimed to hate but John knew he secretly appreciated. “How’re you feeling?”

                “Like I’ve been clobbered over the head, stomped on and nearly set on fire.”

                “Sounds about right,” John said, a slight grin on his face. “Couple fractures bones, mostly in your foot, but two ribs as well. Concussion, but no stitches. Don’t worry, I didn’t let them shave any part of your head,” John said, fingers using the excuse of checking his head injury to slide quickly though raven curls. Without commanding it to do so, Sherlock’s hand flipped over and open, fingers uncurling like flower petals. Sherlock, still slightly reeling from his moment of what he would never call panic at not immediately seeing John, simply wanted to feel his doctor’s hand in his. Lestrade pretended not to notice as John took it, folding it into his own like it was made of the rarest and most valuable of silk and glass. And John pretended it was nothing more than it was, even though his heart burned and his stomach clenched at the gesture.

                “Why is Lestrade in your chair?” Sherlock asked, sliding accusing eyes to the man in question.

                “He looked like he could use the break Sherlock, you caused a bit of a fuss when you got yourself snatched. By a group of kids, no less,” John said, hoping to put off Sherlock’s inevitable question by prodding his delicate pride. Sadly for John, Sherlock chose not to take the bait this time. Sherlock’s jaw was clenched in anger and frustration. He was angry that he had gotten so needlessly worried and emotional upon not seeing John, and frustrated because he didn’t know why he had felt that way.

                “You always sit exactly there, unless you are similarly admitted,” Sherlock said, the accusing glare and angry tone now directed squarely at John, who was putting a herculean amount of effort into keeping the pain from his face, voice and posture. “I wake up, see Lestrade sitting there, and I have to sacrifice valuable brain power deducing what foolish things you’ve done to get yourself hurt. You should know better than to waste my time over your perpetual clumsiness. I can’t be bothered with worrying about what pointless idiocy you got yourself injured engaging in.”

Greg’s jaw dropped as he heard Sherlock’s callousness, momentarily filled with fury at the daft git who still had the audacity to still be holding John’s hand. How dare he blame John’s multiple and frequent hospital stays on the doctor’s own folly? John was a regular patient in the A&E, but only because he did everything he could to keep Sherlock whole and safe. And Sherlock had the gall to blame him for it? No wonder John was putting himself through hell.

In the back of his mind, Greg understood that Sherlock had no idea just how inappropriate his words were, as he had no understanding of John’s current situation, or what John had just said to him. And by the looks of John’s face, laughing off Sherlock’s horribly incongruous attack as he lightly chucked the damn prick on the chin, John had no intention of telling the man off. Suddenly, Greg couldn’t decide which of the two he wanted to deck first; Sherlock for saying something so horrible or John for letting him.

“You’ve gotta be bloody kidding me!” Greg shouted, on his feet in a flash.

“John, keep the gibbon at bay, my head is not quite feeling up to dealing with his howling and gibberish,” Sherlock said, not even turning his head, eyes locked on the sight of his long, pale hand wrapped up in one of John’s strong, tan ones.

“You know what? Fuck you, Sherlock!” Lestrade said, causing a genuine reaction from Sherlock, surprised the officer would be so sharp with him when he was hooked to machines in a hospital. Typically, that prompted sympathy in the man, not vulgarity, at least not at this volume and tone.

“Honestly, Lestrade, I’m in the hospital,” Sherlock said. “Look, I’ve got a blanket!” _‘That had worked in the past, why not give it a try again?’_

“Don’t you even, Sherlock. John might let you get away with that typical shit of yours, but you sure as hell owe him an apology for that shitstorm that just poured out of your mouth!” Lestarde’s rant gained volume and momentum as he went. “That man does everything for you! He’s barely staying on his feet right now, but he’s doing it _for you_. He could’ve died today, saving your ass. He let his bloody fucking jumper _melt into his bloody fucking skin_ because he was worried you might’ve rolled a sodden ankle!”

“Greg, that’s enough!” John barked, his voice wavering only slightly as he felt a twinge of pain in his side. “He’s been out for nearly half an hour, and the first thing you’re going to do is scold him like a bloody child?”

“He had no problem doing that to you!” Lestrade cried, throwing his hands up in the air, then bringing them down and back through his silver hair, before stabbing one angry finger at a wide-eyed Sherlock. “He’s passing up anything stronger than goddamn Tylenol so he can take you home. You better be the best fucking patient he’s ever had.” Lestrade turned suddenly, stalking to the door, disgusted by the man at his back. He knew he’d regret this outburst in the morning, but right now, he felt as though Sherlock needed a nice slap of reality, and John needed a little bit of support. Even if he’d never agree to needing it.

“And, John?” Lestrade said from the doorway, hands braced on either side, not trusting himself to look back at the two of them, knowing he’d absolutely lose his shit if he saw John still holding Sherlock’s hand like he deserved that kind of comfort. “I’m calling in the morning. If you haven’t come to get checked out and get some genuine meds by noon, I will drag you here in cuffs. Take care of yourself, you fucking idiot. Sherlock certainly isn’t about to help you do it.”

The room was silent for a few moments after the cross Inspector stormed out. Sherlock was uncomfortably stricken with that “not good” feeling he got when he felt as though he’d done something wrong. It didn’t happen a lot, but it was almost always when he’d unintentionally hurt John. But John was still stroking his thumb over the back of his hand, so John couldn’t be that angry with him, right? So why was he feeling his feeling?

“You were burned,” Sherlock said, not a question, but afraid of the answer nonetheless.

“And you fractured two ribs, four bones in your foot, and got one hell of a head trauma,” John said quietly, releasing Sherlock’s hand on finger at a time.

“Let me see,” Sherlock asked quietly. Pretending to misunderstand, John reached for Sherlock’s chart at the end of his bed. “No, John. The burn, let me see the burn.” John sighed.

“Don’t worry about it, Sherlock, I’ll go get your nurse, talk to your doctor, see if we can’t get you out of here,” John said quickly, as he tried to exit the room as quick as his injuries would let him.

“John,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth as he sat up on his knees, reaching out over the end of the bed to grab John’s arm as he passed. John yelped in pain as his body was yanked roughly to the side.

“Shit, Sherlock!” John cried. _‘Good, get angry at me, it’s okay, you should be angry, I’m sorry I hurt you’_ Sherlock thought. “What’s wrong with you?” Sherlock waited. “Lay the fuck back down, you’re going to hurt yourself!”

Sherlock blinked. Then his eyes narrowed and he glared, fingers still wrapped around John’s wrist.

“Show me the burn,” he demanded, ice in his eyes.

“No,” John said through gritted teeth, pulling once against Sherlock’s hold, growling internally at the wave of heated pain that sent up through his side.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s nothing.”

“It’s enough for Lestrade to worry.”

“Greg always worries.”

“Not about you, he doesn’t. Why is this different?” John sighed, seeing no way out. Sherlock was relentless when he got like this, baring down like a rabid dog, and John’s head was starting to swim from the abuse his damaged skin was taking.

“It’s not pretty Sherlock, it looks worse than it is, and he’s concerned that I'm not taking anything for it.”

“So I can be discharged under your care,” Sherlock supplied. John nodded stiffly. Sherlock was quiet for a second more, trying to understand John’s sacrifice.

“I’ll go get your doctor,” John said, trying to leave again.

“Does it hurt?” Sherlock asked quietly, that “not good” feeling spreading into a “really really bad” feeling.

“A bit, but I’ve felt worse,” John said, his forced grin making him look vaguely sick. He certainly felt like it.

“John,” Sherlock breathed his name, hoping John could hear the apology there. His eyes were wide and sincere, hands folding contritely in his lap.

“It’s okay, Sherlock,” John said, taking a couple careful steps to the side of Sherlock’s bed. “Really, it’s fine. I’m fine. It’s all fine.”

Sherlock could see that John understood, John felt his apology, knew him and cared for him enough to not make him say it. Sherlock nodded once, one hand reaching tentatively out to brush across John’s before it was back in his lap like it’d never left. Only the lingering heat on the inside of his wrist told John he’d been touched at all. And that was enough.

 

*******

 

Sherlock lay on the couch, completely supine, feeling tense in his thoughts, the boot on his broken foot propped heavily on the arm opposite his head. It had been a week since The Burn. Not The Fire, not The Kidnapping, not even The Incident, just The Burn. Because that was what was important, right? It was John’s burn that caused the tension and depression in the doctor, the feelings of hopelessness and uselessness that were evident in everything John did. Sherlock had backed off, given John some space; space for John to prove to himself that he didn’t need anyone but himself to heal. But that had yet to work.

                It had served one purpose, however. It had given Sherlock the space he needed to dissect and categorize his new feelings. Or, perhaps the feelings were not new at all, but now in better focus. Clear, simple, dazzling and captivating focus. It occurred to Sherlock when he had been taken not to worry, because he knew John would find him no matter what. It had occurred to Sherlock that when John came through the doorway of the warehouse, weapon raised and fury on his face, Sherlock felt a warm pride in his friend. It occurred to Sherlock that when he saw flames clinging to John he forgot all about the overstimulation that was assaulting his system; the sights, sounds, smells and pain of the blaze became muted in the background of Sherlock’s mind as all his mental acuity narrowed down to one pinprick of light in a Van Gogh sky. It occurred to Sherlock that he had chosen wake up in the hospital to face the big, messy world again sooner than he had to, because in the recesses of his semi-conscious mind he could faintly hear John’s voice. It occurred to Sherlock that when he woke up and John’s face wasn’t the first he saw, when he was struck by the realization that John might’ve (was) hurt, it had felt like a physical blow to the stomach. It occurred to Sherlock that he wanted to keep John close and safe, always, so that John may never be anywhere else and Sherlock may never be lost again.

                All these thoughts occurred to Sherlock. But what did the all mean? What was the meaning of the amalgamation of all these thoughts he had never felt the need to categorize before. And those were just the remembrances, the facts and truths Sherlock had collected about himself. But the feelings, oh, the feelings were entirely new and yet felt so familiar.

                Sherlock thought back to the uncomfortable clenching around his heart and in his stomach (completely psychosomatic, limited to zero genuine physical danger was present) that could now be classified as jealousy, or longing, at seeing John with one woman and then the next. He thought of the little electric trill he had felt skittering down his spine when he caught a glimpse of John’s tongue sweeping into the mouth of the girl from the pub. He thought of the smug satisfaction he had felt when he had praised John (albeit slightly inappropriately, given the setting) and embarrassed his girlfriend at the New Year’s party. He thought of the swell of anger he had felt when Donovan had implied John was unworthy of the vile bit of blonde glaring at him outside of a crime scene. He thought of the hot, unbridled arousal he had felt when he saw just a second of John in action, naked and sweating, rippling and pulsing, power and passion barely contained but masterfully manipulated. And lastly, he thought of the sensation he had felt, the sensation he could now identify as hope, at hearing that John may very well be completely taken by Sherlock, from a mouth that had had him before.

                The space he’d given John to recover and heal had served as space for Sherlock to analyze and deduce.  And after six very long, very stressful, painful, and thoughtful days, Sherlock had his answer. Sherlock cared more for John than he had ever cared for another person. A lesser, more human man might call it love. ‘That label of sentiment would require further review.’ Either way, John’s face was the only one Sherlock wanted to see in his black moods, the only one he always saw wherever his case took him, and the only face he was sure he’d see when he woke in a hospital bed. John was the only one Sherlock was proud of, jealous for and happy with. And Sherlock wanted to be the only one John felt the same way about.

 

                It had been a long, tired week of healing for John. For the first few days, every move, every twist and turn had made him feel like his skin was being burned and broken anew. After the initial agony of a fresh burn though, of blistering and flaking skin, things became marginally better. John’s skin was well on its way to healing strong and fast. His blisters had dried and his wound had ceased seeping. Bandages were only changed once a day instead of every few hours, and on the sixth day. To keep his delicate, new growing skin safe and healing, he kept it wrapped when stepping under the warm onslaught of the shower. And while the soldier in John cringed at the thought of babying the fresh scar tissue he resented purely on principle, but that didn’t keep the doctor in him from taking care of it, like a good doctor should. But today was the sixth long day of healing and John was tired of treating himself with such delicacy. He’d gotten the wound himself, he’d have to live with the scar all his life. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t sexy. It was pink and molted and stood for failure and worthlessness. John woke up swimming in self-loathing and felt like punishing himself a little.

                Getting into the shower without the protective shield the plastic had provided hurt more than John had anticipated. But he bit his lip and soldiered on, not giving into the weakness of his body again. It was not lost on John how very Sherlock that thought was. And that thought made him glad to have the physical pain as such a potent distraction.

Sherlock had been very quiet, very calm since the fire. It was nice, John supposed, but he was also afraid for what that might mean. John worried that perhaps Sherlock was intentionally reigning himself in, protecting John from the whirlwind that is Sherlock Holmes. And that thought scared John more than anything he’d ever faced before. He’d rather go toe to toe with Moriarty in a battle of wits than have Sherlock feel as though John couldn’t handle him as he was. Sherlock didn’t need to be tempered for John, and John didn’t want Sherlock to have to change for him. John waited desperately for an explosion in the kitchen, a good old fashioned row, or maybe even a nice triple homicide. But, apparently, that was too much to ask for. The last week had been completely empty, the kind of dry spell that should have driven Sherlock mad with boredom.  But instead, Sherlock merely lay on his couch or stayed in his room, watching John move slowly and painfully move about the flat. It was unnerving. Irritating. And it drove John absolutely mad with worry. John had just come to terms with his less than hetero feelings for the detective, and already it seemed as though Sherlock was pushing him away, distancing himself before John had the chance to get any closer.

More than anything, John missed his madman.

John was sitting on his bed, carefully taping his side with new, clean bandages. His burn was raw and swollen again, angry at its harsh treatment from the powerful shower head, so John wrapped it with extra care and attention, while his mind was wrapped up in Sherlock. It was just as he finished taping the last corner of the wide, square bandage on when a soft knock sounded at his door.

Not good. Sherlock never knocked.

“Sherlock,” John said by way of greeting and permission, his voice muffled slightly as he hastily pulled a t-shirt on over his head. Sherlock opened the door and crossed the room wordlessly, sitting before John on his bed, legs pulled up and crossed underneath him. He gazed at John with an emotion in his eyes John had never seen before, and Sherlock had never felt before. Trepidation.

“What is it, Sherlock?” John asked. Sherlock didn’t say anything, eyes glued to his hands folded in his lap. “What’s wrong?” John asked warily, uneasy about his flatmate’s strange behavior. Another moment of silence passed. “Sherlock, what is it?”

“I’m experiencing emotions I am unused to,” Sherlock confessed at length, his voice sounding sure and clear, even as his brain was the opposite.

“Okay,” John said slowly, studying his friends face, looking for clues as to what this might mean. “What kind of emotions?” Sherlock sighed.

“Worry,” he began, his voice quiet. “Hesitation. Confusion.” He peaked out from under his lashes at John. “Want.”

“Want?” John repeated, eyebrows raising, trying hard to get a hand on the hope creeping up his heart.

“Want,” Sherlock said again, nodding slowly, eyes locked on John’s. “Horrible, aching want. So much that I might be drowning in it.”

“Want?” John asked again, stupidly, stunned by the depth in his friend’s eyes, hesitant to give to the feeling rising in his heart and pooling in his gut. “For a case?” Sherlock shook his head, his eyes clouded and brow furrowed.

“No, John,” he whispered, leaning forward, bracing a hand on the bed between them.

“Then what do you want?” John’s question was barely a whisper, released on a breath. A breath that dusted Sherlock’s face as he scooted closer still to his doctor.

Sherlock didn’t answer, only shook his head slightly, as if to say _‘Don’t make me say it, I don’t know if I can.’_  

“John,” was all he could say. And whether it was an answer or a question, neither of them knew. But as Sherlock closed the distance between them and pressed his lips carefully and cautiously against John’s, it felt a lot like a promise.

John stilled under the soft, scared kiss, eyes still open, holding his breath until Sherlock pulled away. Sherlock’s eyes opened slowly before flickering all over his face, trying like mad to deduce everything that John was thinking and feeling. But he came up empty, as all John could think was…

“ _Sherlock.”_

John leaned forward to kiss Sherlock again, fuller and surer than the first, one hand coming up to carefully rest where Sherlock’s shoulder met his neck, urging him closer without pushing him too far. Sherlock exhaled harshly through his nose, hands sliding up John’s arms, legs unfolding from underneath him and folding around John instead. He sighed under the care and attention of John’s mouth on his, and John’s hand crept up into the curls at the base of his neck, one arm curling around Sherlock’s back, pulling him as close as he dared. John slid just the tip of his tongue quickly across the inside of Sherlock’s bottom lip, and Sherlock opened his mouth further under John’s, eager to feel that flick of tongue against his own, needing John closer and closer, as close as two people could become.

John’s heart  was racing, and his brain wasn’t far behind. His head was a whirl of thoughts, mostly _‘God, is this finally happening? This is what I’ve always wanted. But is this what he really wants? He said he wanted this, right? That’s what he meant? God I hope so, I can’t go back to whatever we were before now, not after I know what it feels like for real.’_ John hoped like hell that this was real, that this was what Sherlock really wanted. He didn’t know Sherlock to ever do anything he didn’t want; he hoped this wouldn’t be the exception. He also knew Sherlock didn’t do sentiment; he hoped he could be an exception.

The kiss deepened and heated, tongues sliding hotly together, breath coming shorter and fingers gripping tighter. Growing bolder, John shifted his partner shifted closer still, nearly into his lap, one arm around his shoulders, the other hand sliding up his thigh. A quiet moan slipped from Sherlock’s mouth into John’s, as John gently massaged pressure points and tissue ties in the taller man’s back, eliciting a shiver from his detective’s frame, falling boneless into his talented lover’s arms.  John kissed across Sherlock’s jaw, down his neck, nibbling the sensitive expanse of skin, reveling in every sigh, squeak and moan his lips wrought from his genius.John’s hands were gentle but insistent, sliding over his back and thighs, and as their mouths met again it was all hunger and desperation. Teeth clacked and tongues clashed as messy kisses were smeared over swollen lips. Sherlock moaned, low and rumbling, exactly like John had dreamt. When Sherlock’s fingers brushed along John’s denim-clad erection, he couldn’t help but bite down hard on his full bottom lip. He pulled back slowly, letting Sherlock’s lip snap back in place, as their foreheads rested together.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” John asked breathlessly, eyes squeezed shut against the sensation of Sherlock dexterous finger’s outlining his hard-on, his breath hitching as his flatmate pressed the flat of his palm against him.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, his voice low with heat. “God, John, this is perfect.”

“Maybe, we should wait a while,” John said, flinching at the thought that he would be hindered by his wound. He was temporarily limited in his techniques and moves, unable to really perform, to wow Sherlock with all that he could do

“No, now,” Sherlock insisted, hands fumbling with the button of John jeans, trying to push his back against the bed. John Watson isn’t a vain man, but if there was one aspect about himself he was damn proud of, it was his expertise as a lover and his skill between the sheets. And while his prick was unmarred and was _definitely interested_ in what was going on, John knew he wouldn’t be able to participate as actively as he normally would have.

“Sherlock, it won’t be as good as when I can—” He was cut off by desperate lips, pulling at his own.

 “Please, John.” John’s eyes flew open. Sherlock never said please. And his voice sounded so wrecked, so desperate, John couldn’t help but kiss him again. John’s hands, war-tempered and surgeon-trained, didn’t shake as he quickly popped open each button of Sherlock’s shirt, remembering those on his cuffs, kissing the inside of each wrist, before he pushed the shirt down and over his pale, perfect shoulders.

“I’ll be careful,” Sherlock promised in a quiet voice as he gently pressed John down against the pillows, coming to hover above him. They kissed again, a slow, languid slide of lips as belts were unbuckled and zippers were lowered. But when Sherlock slipped his hand down into John’s stretched black pants, John growled.

“Shit, fuck!” he spat, head slamming back as Sherlock impossibly long fingers slid expertly against him. In the next moment, it was Sherlock who was swearing, as John’s hands were everywhere. Dragging over his bare, narrow back before grabbing big handfuls of that deliciously plush arse, pulling him close and grinding up against him. Sherlock gasped as those hands he’d seen on countless women were now on him, where they’d always belonged.

Hands that suddenly redirected, however, faster than Sherlock expected as one locked around his wrist, stopping his long, pale hand from creeping underneath John’s shirt.

 “Shirt stays on,” John said, his voice quiet and gentle, but a demand no less.

“No, John, please,” Sherlock whispered, tugging against John’s hold on his wrist, his hand gripping the hem of the plain white shirt even tighter.

“Leave it,” John insisted, the hand not locked around Sherlock’s hand creeping up into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him down for a gentle, talented kiss. But Sherlock refused to be drawn in, hard as it was, and pulled away, releasing John’s shirt and siting up between John’s legs.

“Why?” He asked, as John pushed himself up onto his elbows, reaching for Sherlock. Sherlock let him take his hand, fingers twining with his, but he resisted being pulled back down. John sighed, siting up again and leaning back against the head board, grimacing at the twinge in his side.

 “We all have scars,” Sherlock said when it was apparent John was not going to answer, cutting immediately to the center of the problem, not bothering to dance around the issue or approach with tact like all John’s lovers previously had. But that exactly the kind of thing that made John love the twat, wasn’t it?

“I have scars,” Sherlock continued. “Plenty of them.” He was right, of course. On further inspection, John could identify several thin white lines, likely knife wounds, on Sherlock’s sides and even one on his neck. There was on pink puckering of skin on his hip that looked suspiciously like a bullet graze. And, of course, there were the smattering of track marks nestled in the crease of his elbow. _‘Christ, even his drug-related scars looked like they were painted on by Michel-freaking-angelo himself.’_

“And you are beautiful,” John said, leaning forward, much to his burn’s dismay, to reverently kiss a scar on Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock’s eyes shuttered closed at the feeling of John’s tongue flicking teasingly over his skin. “But we don’t all wear scars like pieces of artwork.”

Sherlock frowned, looking down at John disapprovingly before he gently pushed him back against the pillows.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, his voice deadly serious, eyes entreating, bracing his hands on either side on John’s broad shoulders.

“Of course I do,” John said with a sigh. “But really, you don’t want—” Cut-off by another kiss, John was going to need to find a way to defend against that, if this were to continue.

“I _want_ so much, John” Sherlock whispered against his lips. “I want all of you, every inch. I want to know you better, more completely, more intimately than anyone in this world.”

“You already do,” John answered unsteadily. The earnestness of Sherlock’s words stunned John into silence. The openness in his eyes reached down to his very core, and John was shaken.

“The let me see you,” Sherlock pleaded, one hand brushing John’s cheek. John looked away from Sherlock’s adoring (loving?) gaze.

“Fine, but go turn of the light first,” John said, clearing his throat gruffly.  Sherlock leapt off the bed, long strides taking him quickly to the light switch and back as John pulled his t-shirt over his head, tossing it to the ground, not seeing where it landed as the room plunged into shadows. “But if you change your mind,” John continued as Sherlock carefully situated himself back on the bed. “If you change your mind, I want you to tell me. Don’t think you have to finish this if you decide you don’t want to.” He wouldn’t meet Sherlock eyes in the semidarkness. If he had, he would’ve seen the hurt there.

“John,” Sherlock said, his voice quiet but harsh. He grabbed John’s jaw and forced him to meet his glowing gaze. “It wouldn’t matter what you looked like,” he began softly. “It never has. It never will. But, as you seem to care about it a great deal, I’d like you to know that I think every scar you have is beautiful.”

“Sherlock,” John sighed into his new lover’s curls as he kissed, licked and mouthed his way down John’s newly bared chest.

“Perfect example of human male,” Sherlock murmured against scarred skin, the clinical tone dampened by lust. “And, if we’re speaking frankly,” Sherlock said after a moment of quiet as he drug his lips down John’s body. “ I’d be honored to have you in my bed, even if you weren’t what I'm sure will be the best shag of my life. Even at, hmm, 70%?” Sherlock said, a goading, playful light in his eyes as he grinned up from belt-level.

“Oh, I’ll show you 70%,” John said, giving in to the warm, giddy feeling filling his body. He reached forward, grabbed Sherlock by the curls and dragged his lips down to his own. His body might not have been in peak fucking condition, but John made sure his talented kisses showed Sherlock everything he was missing. In seconds, Sherlock was boneless against him, only barely controlling himself enough so as to not fall directly against John’s injured side. John eased himself back down against the pillows, pulling his flatmate down with him, hands dusting and fluttering down his body, causing tingles and shivers to assault the detective above him.

“Trousers. Pants. Gone,” John growled against the brunette’s teeth. Sherlock was quick to react, and with John’s help and guidance, he got the rest of their clothes off, quickly and painlessly, without once bringing his lips from John’s.

“Mmm, yeah, love, right like that, fucking perfect,” John moaned, the feeling of Sherlock’s skin sliding against his blocking out any remembrance of pain. Sherlock’s lips trailed from his down to his chest, tongue tracing thick, raised war wounds, mouthing at the scar on his shoulder, and bowing his back so he could kiss around the taped edges of the bandage covering his burn. John shivered at the intensity, the intimacy of the moment.

Sherlock was in heaven, finally mapping out every inch and scratch of his new lover. _This_ was what Sherlock had been missing. Every flaw on John’s skin was another reason to love the man. And that’s what this was, wasn’t it? This was love? Being wrapped up in John, giving and receiving pleasure, having John all to himself, focused on him, attending to him, and allowing Sherlock to do the same. It was everything he’d ever imagined, and he never wanted to let his beautiful, scarred man out of his sight.

 John grabbed at his young lover, pulling their lips together, knees nudging and positioning the lanky man between his legs. John grabbed a handful of soft flesh, shifting so their cocks lay perfectly aligned, pressing together and pinned by their bodies. With a growl and a hiss John rolled up into Sherlock, a shadow of pain drifting from the burned skin curling over his hipbone, but greatly surpassed by the wave of pleasure that coursed through his body at the feeling of Sherlock held tight against him. _‘God, this man is perfect,’_ he thought as he began his assault on his lover’s ear, jaw and neck, rocking his hips up with each suck and bite he lavished across Sherlock’s skin.

“Bloody hell,” Sherlock panted, and John grinned against his collarbone, pleased to hear the genius reduced to such common language. John trailed his fingers feather-light down the curve of Sherlock’s spine, counting each vertebra, reveling in the long expanse of smooth, creamy skin. _‘And it’s finally mine to touch,’_ John thought with what would’ve been untempered glee, had it not been for the heavy fog of arousal that had settled low throughout the entire room. John thrust up again, pulling Sherlock down to meet him with one hand, the other was searching through the bedside table for his bottle of lube.

 “John,” Sherlock sighed, eyes glazed, head buried in John’s neck as he bore John’s magnificent assault on his senses. His eyes widen suddenly when a warmly lubed hand wrapped surely around their twin arousals. “Unnnng, _God!”_ Sherlock moaned, so hard and loud it grated his throat. John chuckled wickedly as he thumbed across the head of Sherlock’s cock with just the right amount of pressure and slide, before pumping them together.

“Gorgeous, love,” John said, his other hand anchoring Sherlock’s hips so he wouldn’t thrust down against John’s injury. His lips sucked on the hinge of Sherlock’s jaw, knowing it was a sensitive spot, as Sherlock often touched it himself when thinking or reading. Sherlock gasped, vibrating in John’s grip as he continued to pump them together.

 _“John!”_ The way Sherlock said his name would echo in every dream, every fantasy, every waking moment John spent thinking about his wonderfully mad detective. John increased the pressure and speed on their cocks, fingers gripping tightly around Sherlock’s hip bone. The taller, boneless man whimpered when John pressed teeth to the purple bruise left on his jaw, fingers clenching and eyes squeezing shut as the sensation of _John Everywhere._

“C’mon, ‘Lock, let go,” John urged, his voice low, rough and enticing. Sherlock gritted his teeth, torn between giving into the release John promised and prolonging the pleasure. The decision was made for him, however, when John crashed their hips together with a growl, his hand sliding from hip to back to arse and down to cup Sherlock’s balls, giving a squeeze as he twisted his fist over the head of his cock, grinding bodily against him, lips meeting a wet exchange of moans.

Sherlock came. _Hard._ Whining John’s name, breath stopping completely before continuing in harsh gasps as he held on to sanity as whiteness threaten his vision and he heard ringing in his ears. He felt John tense and shudder underneath him, felt the hot spray of cum splattering between them. For a couple moments, Sherlock lay collapsed against his lover, cradled in the splay of his thighs, wrapped securely in his arms.

It was only when Sherlock nuzzled closer and the doctor hiss at the flare of pain from his forgotten wound, that Sherlock realized he should really move. He pushed himself up onto shaky arms, surveying the mess smeared across his and John’s stomachs. He grinned a sleepy, satisfied grin, catching John’s eyes before dipping low and licking a stripe over John’s cum-covered abdomen.

“Sherlock,” John said, half groan, half chuckle. He ran a hand back through his new lover’s curls, hoping Sherlock would be okay with how very badly John wanted him to curl up next to him and sleep the rest of the day away. But Sherlock merely grinned, sliding off the bed to stand on slightly unsteady legs. He turned and made for the door.

John swallowed, unsure as to whether to expect a return, or if he should ask for one. He needn’t worry, however, but the detective let him for another moment longer before tossing a quiet “Be right back,” over his shoulder as he slowly made his way across the room. He returned shortly, a warm, wet flannel in his hand, already wiping at himself before coming to do the same for John. He then sat on the edge of the bed, cloth hanging limply from long, musician fingers.

“Would you like me to stay?” he asked, eyes not meeting John’s, but staring past him to the wall instead.

“Do you want to?” John asked, knowing Sherlock could read his answer in his face. Sherlock studied him quickly before giving a curt nod, sliding under the blankets and scooting up to John’s good side. They melted together for a moment in post-orgasmic bliss, John’s hand running lazily up and down Sherlock’s spinal cord.

“Sherlock,” John said, his voice quiet and slow.

“Mmm, yes John?” he answered, smiling slightly at the way John’s chest rumbled when he said his name.

“I can’t go back.” John’s confession was barely more than a breath and his eyes were closed and hands gentle as they ran over Sherlock’s skin. “I can’t go back to the way things were before. Now, after this, I can’t just go back to being your flatmate.”

“Never,” Sherlock whispered, pressing a kiss to what appeared to be an old shrapnel wound on John’s ribs. “I won’t go back. I won’t ever not want you, John.” This time when Sherlock sighed his name, it was most definitely a promise.

And as Sherlock rode the high of the best orgasm of his life, thus far, he allowed himself a new closeness, a new openness with the man he had deduced he was absolutely, and very humanly, in love with.

**Author's Note:**

> Really would appreciate some feedback on this. I know I can't be the only one who see's Dr. John Watson as a total stud! If you have any ideas for chapters or characters, let me know, I might need the inspiration!


End file.
